


Death of a Swordsman

by OneTrueStudent



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7938313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneTrueStudent/pseuds/OneTrueStudent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I spend a lot of time thinking about dragons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Al Varad fell off a dragon and broke both his legs.

The dragon climbed in a great spiral circling the sun, and he stared until the black dot vanished towards the black city that hung in space. He was still there when hoofbeats sounded across the plains as riders appeared.

There was nothing in any direction. The nearest rock was half a mile away. Varad lay on charred earth cleared of grass, cool now after burning only moments ago. He was wearing small clothes, what he had stripped down to to swim, and carried nothing but his sword, the Song of Winter. Impact had injected extra joints into his shins below the knee. The sky was a perfect blue arc without hill, mountain, or cloud, and wildfires raced away to the horizon, tiny lines of red and orange that hid behind minute variations in the ground. Nearby a circle of ground still burned hot and green, eating into the earth. From the hole jutted a few broken ship's spars, and Varad watched the old barnacles burned off, the beams consumed, and even the bolts and fixings savaged by the flame. But the dragon was gone, and the hoofbeats sounded in air and through the ashy ground.

Varad wasn't a big man. He was shorter than many lowland women and confused for a boy at distance. He was strong only in his hands, and the rest of his body was lean and quick. His hair was black, eyes brown, and he had a sharply squared off nose.

As the horsemen approached he looked around, found nothing, and waited before looking around again. His expression indicated he couldn't believe there was nothing here. There was no cave or gully, there weren't any sticks, there was nothing. He kept looking for something that wasn't there to find. He considered the sick green flames that barely crested the earth outside their pit and shook his head. They stank. He could smell the malice and fury in the fire. He looked around. Heat escaping the flames made the horizon waver, forming a grasslands mirage of terrain. Something splintered and the figurehead crested the hole, and woodenly screamed from the middle of the pit. Varad considered the illusion expressionlessly before dragging himself towards her. One hand pawed the ashy dirty, one slammed the red-sheathed sword along. She finished her scream as something else splintered and broke, and the angel in white sank into the burning earth. Varad kept crawling.

He got nowhere in any reasonable extent of time and looked at the horsemen. They were still coming, tall dark silhouettes against the sky. He crawled a few body-lengths again, but looked at the sick flames that smelled of acid and bile. The horsemen still came. He looked for anything, found nothing, and crawled a body length closer to the fire-pit. Part of the pit looked like a hill.

Varad whispered, "Mirage," to himself and looked to the far plains, the sky, the ground, and found nothing. He crawled towards the mirage.

He was still a long bowshot away when the Consequence arrived. There looked to be about fifty of them, dressed in leather and wool.

“I am Fradick. This is the Consequence of the Noonday Sun.” Their leader announced. He removed his headpiece coming forward, revealing half a dozen short bone spurs that jutted up around his head like a crown. More of them stabbed out of the skin on his hands and forearms. His wide, flat eyes were darkly bloodshot.

“I saw the descending fire from the sky land here,” the horned lord continued. “And so find you. Did you come down with it?”

“Yes,” Varad replied. “It was my chariot, for I am an angel of the sun. My vengeance is terrible, and my power is great.”

“Excellent. You will be delicious.”

Varad swore. This outcome was foreordained. He looked at the men in their thin armor and decided he could probably stop anyone that liked having legs. Unfortunately the horned-lord dismounted and strode forward. The Song of Winter sang against Fradick's shin, spitting a ruin of sparks from a shallow wound over the steely bone. The giant ignored it and reached for Varad's swordhand. The Al tried to roll and evaded Fraddick for several seconds, whipping small cuts against his face and shoulders. Even the lord's flesh screeched like metal against the blade.

Fraddick finally caught him by his sword-arm wrist. Grabbing the Song of Winter by the blade, he yanked it out of Varad's hands before binding him in leather thongs. Done, Fraddick had several of the riders throw the prisoner over a spare horse and looked at the sword. There was a speckled pattern of metal grain on the blade, like snowfall in moonlight on a windless night. Fraddick sheathed it, tucked the blade under his saddle, and climbed onto a black horse twenty two hands tall. It looked normal sized under him.

 

They had gone a short distance before a cry went up. Another consequence had been spotted and called forwards and back. The riders looked to their master with suspicion, concern, or fury.

It was a test of power, and one Fradick disliked intensely. He eyed the bound and bloodied prisoner with concern, and looked at the far riders to estimate distance, before taking quick stock of his own troops.

“Leave the angel on the ground, tied to the horse. Everyone, bows out. We attack,” he declared and followed his own instructions. His bow shone like metal, but the surface was twisted and curved. It bulged with steel veins and had joints like knees. The brained string was held in steel fingers. They cut Varad's horse loose, and the Consequence of Noonday Sun charged across the plains.

The other consequence was already looping wide. They spiraled in until Noonday Sun tried to turn sharply and diameter the loop, but a botched command resulted in the inside of the pack turning while the outside went straight. Horsemen collided and smashed. Sudden Conflict swung round and salvoed twice into the chaos. Their broad arrows dropped men from horses but Fraddick fired in return, and put the foremost down. Finally Noonday Sun got moving together, and Sudden Conflict swung wide to avoid direct hit. Both spread for range. A wide, looping battle passed over the plains, heading for a shallow hill beside a bit of stream. Sudden Conflict fled over it, and Noonday Sun followed screaming.

No sooner had Noonday Sun crossed the hill than another giant jumped from behind a rock, and put a twisted iron arrow from his own great bow through the chasing pack. It tore through men, rending instead of stabbing, and ripped arms from shoulders. Noonday Sun scattered. Fraddick had been at the center, and in the moment his horsemen fled, he searched the hillside for the enemy. The enemy already knew where he was.

Lrok's arrow split Fradick's horse's skull like rotten tinder and carried through into the rider, knocking him backwards. Fradick rolled and stumbled upright, and the ambushing giant shot him again. Fraddick stumbled. He got shot again, and horns splintered on his face. He wobbled. The other shot his throat out, ran him down, and broke his body with spurred fists. Sudden Conflict horsemen chased Noonday Sun across the plains, and the two giants were alone.

“You will make many excellent weapons,” Lrok praised, standing up in gore and mud with a fist through the head's hair. Fraddick's head glared at him. “I will burn your bones down to ore, and smelt you into bows and swords. Know that after you die, your body will serve me, and I will kill all your people and eat them.” He spat in Fraddick's face and beat it into the ground to ensure dead Fradick's last memory was defeat.

After that the champion trudged over to the loser's remains and discarded the head atop them. He searched the dead horse and checked it over. He noted the fine blade with curiosity and took it.

It was not long before his own minions returned. They had chased the fleeing riders across the plains but not caught any. In the search the riders of this group had come to find Varad. For his part Varad had managed to bite through the thongs on his wrists but seeing the strange riders of Sudden Conflict, the horse had fled. Being bounced and smashed, Varad had tried to climb the halter to the beast, and been seized again before mounting. Thus he came to his next horned captor.

“Excellent,” the victor pronounced, seeing his spoils. “Notice how all here were men? We will release the horse and beat it. It will run home. Take the people, but do not kill more then is necessary. I will eat the dead tonight with this one,” he decided pointing at Varad.

Lrok was much like Fradick, a giant with horns jutting from his head and face, and spurs sticking out of his hands and feet. Every place bone came close to skin it pushed out. He had exalted, cruel eyes and spoke with furious glee.

“So you don't want the ransom?” Varad asked.

“What ransom?”

“The ransom for me. That one-” Varad lolled his head weakly at the defeated master, “-intended to send my sword as a token of my identity to the Red Chapterhouse at Hysterat or Tyr. All men know the Red Guard will pay a soldier's weight in steel for one of their own.”

“Who are you?” asked Lrok, pausing in his gloating.

“Varad,” his prisoner answered.

The captor thought about that for a moment. “I have heard something of this. Your weight, you say?”

“In fine steel. My weight upon delivery, as an incentive to treat me well and feed me,” Varad agreed. He was a whore.

“I have heard something about this,” the other said again. “But why should I trust your words?”

“Because you've heard something of it before. The Red Guard never betrays this deal and encourage you to tell the tale among yourselves to gloat. You will have heard of it with boasting. This way you can be sure of your reward.”

Flush with triumph, the captor looked over at the body of his foe. Fraddick was calcifying with a black rot that crept up over the flesh. It was rusty red and ugly yellow, gray and leached white. “You intrigue me.”

“You must send them the sword,” Varad emphasized. “Otherwise they may not trust you. Send the sword by messenger, and they will come for the exchange.”

“Why the sword?”

“It is known to them. We are all known by our blades.”

Lrok scowled at the blade, fingered it, let the weight of it rest in his hands. He drew and lusted at it, glaring at the metal. Varad watched his eyes. Lrok did not trace the grain, but stared at the point of the curved weapon, and inspected the close weave of cords on the handle. Lrok's fist tightened possessively. But a memory wormed through his brain. He nodded. “It will be done. You will make me rich, Varad.”

“You will be as rich as I weigh. Remember that,” Varad replied and stopped trying to look competent.

“And I will make you fat. You, break his legs so he can't run, then tie him to a horse.” Lrok decided and ordered one of his men.

“Of course,” the man replied, and with that Lrok lost interest.

The man grabbed one of Varad's shins to find that it was already broken and wiggled when he yanked it. Varad broke out sweating. That was enough for the rider, and he heaved the prisoner onto a pack beast and bound him there.

 

Lrok lead the Consequence of Sudden Conflict across the plains. Nothing was as flat as it had been from above. East of the impact site the ground looked like the surface of a huge pot of water, caught in the moment of boiling, and then covered with gold and green grass. Here and there rough piles of rock shouldered up above the grass, and their presence could be seen in other vast hills with strange shapes and running shoulders. Between the dells were hills with steep sides and sharp drops, rarely of more elevation than a hundred feet.

Lrok lead his horsemen warily. Most rode at least a dozen feet apart, and kept themselves ranged about the rough countryside so that no great number of them were ever together in the lowlands.

They approached one such naked rock. It sat in a narrow lowland between two shallow hills, filled to both sides with brown cattle. More horsemen sat on top both rises, silent in the high grass. Those grasses broke up their silhouettes, and they kept their horses tethered within reach but a little downhill. Lrok's riders came together into a pack as they dropped into a cleft that lead to the herds. By the time they came to the cattle, perhaps a hundred and fifty people were waiting for them. Most were women and children, but several old men were there as well. All looked to be in good health.

Ignoring them, the horned lord dismounted, and went to Fradick's corpse. He untied it from the dozen horses who had been dragging it and heaved the body up to his shoulders. It stayed rigid with clumps of dirt and grass sticking out here and there.

“We found one of my brothers, and I killed him,” Lrok declared, heaving the body up so that it could be seen. The thing had solidified more since the fight, and now it was pure black metal save where the bodily fluids had been. These ran with rust and formed rivulets indistinguishable from blood. Lrok was holding it over his head straight armed and the soil compacted beneath his feet. Some of the people looked, but most averted their eyes in silence. They looked tired.

After a few moments, he dropped the metal corpse to his shoulders and trudged off towards the rocks. “Make the forges ready. As soon as it gets dark, I will smelt the dead.”

Once he was away, the women and children joined the men. It was a subdued reunion with no tears or loud voices. They parted in small groups and went back to the rocks after Lrok.

Two riders pulled Varad off the pack horse and dragged him after the others. They took him between two great boulders where a narrow doorway was cut in the earth. Inside was a small room dug out of the earth. There was nothing there but a wooden bed, jammed against one wall.

“You might be able to try to escape or wander off,” one of the two said, releasing Varad's arm so he could drop, face first into the dirt. “Don't. It will not go well, and there is no escape.” He sounded tired as well, as exhausted as the faces of the women had been. Neither of the two said anything else. There was no door to look and bar behind them.

On hands and knees the broken swordsman dragged himself to the bed and rolled in. The frame was seven pieces of wood, four for a rectangular frame and three legs. It wobbled under his weight. Fighting off a tiredness as deep as what the horsemen had exhibited, Varad rolled his shoulders a few times. They were sore and muscles had been bruised, but nothing felt broken. He checked his legs.

Both were broken in the shin. The breaks were closed, with no fragments jutting through the skin. He was cut in many places on both legs, but those were the effects of the dragging. Varad looked around, getting an idea of what he had to work with, and found only dirt, rocks, and the single wobbly bed. He examiend the bed. The legs were short, thin pieces of hardwood, wrapped in leather. With a sigh, he pulled the legs off the bed and did what he had to do.

It was extraordinarily painful. The muscles had contracted, pulling the broken bits of bone up past the break. He had yank his feet away from him while pressing his thighs to his chest and hold the separation while binding them to the wooden bed legs. A couple of times he couldn't see through the tears and gloom, but had to operate by feel in the dark. In the end it got finished, and Varad slept, knowing nothing of what else happened that night.

 

When he woke up someone had deposited two bowls by his door. One held water, cold and wonderful, while the other was mostly meat with roots and something vaguely rice-like as well. Varad ate and drank before returning to a deep, dreamless sleep. His entire body hurt, but he was too tired to care.

 

“Wake up.”

The words snapped through his sleep. He suddenly flashed awake, to see two shadows in the doorway, outlines against the stars.

“Lrok wants you to see something. Get up and come along,” it was the same one who spoke before. He was the one standing on the right. It wasn't the man who'd warned him against attempting to flee, but his words had the same tired tone.

“I can't stand. Lrok had my legs broken,” Varad replied. He grabbed the wall and bedframe and levered himself sitting.

“Walk or we drag you,” the other stated. His words were flat, devoid of emotion. There was no commensurate hostility to go with the threat.

“It will be easier to carry than drag me,” Varad suggested.

“We weren't told to carry you, just bring you,” the first speaker replied. His words were flat with apathy.

“Faster too,” Varad added, almost pleading. “Lrok wouldn't want to be kept waiting.”

“He'll wait if he knows it's because we're dragging you across the dirt,” the second speaker retorted.

“He'd like that,” the first agreed.

“Oh, please no,” Varad whispered and was dragged away. When they dropped his arms, he was very pale and lay still.

“Red Guard, wake up and see this,” bellowed Lrok. Eventually his captive did.

Lrok was standing between two greater standing stones. Behind him the gap had been plugged with clay, and against one of the monoliths was a clay furnace. Waves of heat poured out of it, causing the air to ripple like flowing water. The stones themselves had been seared black.

The huge, horned man stood directly before the door to the furnace. His clothing, singed around the edges, hung still in the heat. The huge figure did not seem to be sweating at all. Before him was a flat topped rock that rose to the height of his hips. On top of that was a dark mound, and it took several seconds for Varad to figure out that it was Fradick.

“Before I send you back to your people, I want to to witness this. Fradick died at my hands. Tell stories of it. Tell the world.”

Lrok dragged the carcass across the stone until it was almost within the flames. The clay furnace had an opening on the side, and with tongs he shoved the dead lord the rest of the way in. The corpse rested in a ceramic trough, and flames roared on all sides. The chimney was cleverly concealed such that it cast a wide smear of smoke.

“Now, you said I must send your sword back first. Your people will know it?” he demanded. Lrok had twisted, proud voice that wasn't constantly any single pitch.

“Yes,” Varad said quietly. “They will know it by the blade and the pommel.”

“Is it named?”

Varad considered lying but couldn't see any advantage to it. “The Song of Winter,” he finally answered.

“A stupid name,” Lrok judged and returned to the blazing heat of his smithy. With his tongs he reached into the fire, and withdrew a sword, glowing cherry red. He held it up slowly, that Varad could fully recognize it and understand what was coming. He dropped it onto the rock and took a hammer. He smashed the junction of blade and handle with strength, not skill, and broke it into pieces. He knocked them off the stone and let them lay in the dirt.

“They'll get the blade and pommel,” Lrok said, pleased with himself. “Just not attached. And you won't be using this again.”

Varad watched hollow-hearted. Outside the white glow of the furnace, the world was very dark with night. In the light of the fire the stars were invisible. For the first time he felt alone.

“Drag him back to his bed, then feed him again,” Lrok ordered the two guards, who had remained back. “He looks pale, and we want him to gain weight.”

They did. Varad didn't remember it. Nor did he remember crawling into bed, nor sleeping or waking again. Sometimes there was food before him. Time passed, but nothing changed.


	2. Chapter 2

Several times a day he was brought bowls of meat and roots, and either water or fresh milk. That was usually hotter then the beef, fresh from the cow. He sat on his low bed, back to the hard dirt wall, and rested his legs straight out before him.

He had burns across much of his back and legs as well as his face. His eyebrows and hair had been burned off. Even his eyelashes were gone. His palms were erratically burned as well, but he knew those scars. They matched the spots on the Song of Winter's handle where metal had been able to touch his skin through the silk. Varad stared at them for a while, then noticed the burns on his wrists as well.

On one was a perfect hand print in bright red skin. On the other was the mark of a foot. He didn't remember getting those, but after time and careful thought he put them together with when Fradick had disarmed him. The horned-lord's skin had been burning hot to the touch. Lrok had stood near the heart of the furnace, and the reflected heat off the two great stones would have beat him like fire. Their horned bodies were inflamed with heat, and vastly stronger and heavier than a man.

It did trip his memory of the dragon. Hegel's wyrm had breathed fire, but its presence had extinguished it as well. Not all the time, he corrected himself. It had set the broken ship aflame and that had burned well enough. Varad sent his mind into his recent memories and searched them. Did the beast have a general command of fire and heat, or were there specific things it could do? And Lrok, was he similarly capable?

Varad thought not. Both Lrok and Fradick had worn heavy leather, especially on places their bodies might have brushed their horses and rode in thick saddles. The unnatural body heat was probably something out of their control.

Lrok smelted Fradick's corpse, and his bones closely resembled metal of their bows. The calcification on death had been like the corpse congealed into iron and rust. Their bones resisted the bite of swords. In his dirt prison the man lay still and went further back through his memories, searching for mention of the horned lords.

The stories were relatively simple. They came from the deep south and had pushed as far as Ashirak itself, several hundred years ago. When trade relations had opened, they had initially sought slaves. The historians knew more. How do you kill something like that?

'With a lance and warhorse,' was the obvious answer. Put a ton of armored man and charger behind a sixteen foot lance, and all that impact gets condensed to a point. The Red Guard fought on foot, behind fortifications if they had time to make them, but the White Guard did the exact opposite. They were the heavy cavalry of Dylath-Leen, and Varad regretted ignoring them for being inferior swordsman. They were certainly excellent horsemen.

Hegel was certainly a sublime horseman, and that wasn't something he had learned on the Palm. Of course, with a dragon, Hegel wouldn't have needed to a lance. How had Hegel even gotten a dragon? There were too many details still unknown.

Varad roused himself out of the trance, and noticed more food had been provided. He rolled out of bed and inched his way to the door by shrugging his shoulders. He ate and crawled outside to do his business.

 

No one bothered him. Lrok had other things to do and for a while carried on without further torment of his prisoner, while the people who served him just didn't care. He saw them sometimes when they brought his food. They always looked exhausted and beaten down. They weren't starving and had well fleshed forms, but they were careworn always. None ever looked rested. They looked in on Varad with hollow, uncaring eyes.

Varad vowed so long as Lrok kept to the exchange, he would not do him harm. Anything the northman did might be vented in punishment on prisoners of the future. His back and burns healed, and within another couple weeks, he could sit on the bed with lower legs resting on the floor. His healing bones could hold their own weight, though the rest of his was still beyond reason. Varad dreamed of the sword either sleeping or waking, and said or did nothing.

One night he woke up overwhelmed by a sense of hostility. He went for his sword, groping aimlessly across his body, before stopping as understanding returned. Before he opened his eyes he felt a sudden pounding heat mixed with the stench of gore.

Lrok was in his hovel, standing over him. In the darkness he was just a dark blur, but the stars shimmered over his shoulders. They waltzed in the shimmering air. The horned-lord was an immense dark shadow, almost as wide as he was tall with an outline broken by errant bits of fabric and bone spikes. He stank of blood and viscera. Some fluid was running down his skin, and the splatter of droplets across his body sounded like distant rain. Beyond anything else in the night, beyond the power and horror of his dim shape, was an overwhelming sense of evil.

Varad dragged himself back against the wall. He couldn't lean forward to sit without touching the black form, so he pulled himself up against the wall. He didn't know what to say or do, and in the darkness he couldn't identify a target, were he to have a weapon.

Lrok watched the injured man and left without ever speaking.

For a long time Varad stared after him, wondering what that visitation could have possibly meant. He expected the horned one's return at any point. It didn't happen. All Varad had was a long, sleepless night. He couldn't figure out why. Some time later a man entered and crouched by the door, but he was as silent as the horned lord and likewise made neither movement or conversation.

Elsewhere, in the defile between the two huge standing stones where Lrok had located his forge, the horned one began to coax heat out of the furnace. Below the mouth was a long, tubular chimney of hard clay with a number of hatches. Each of these lead to a stone basket, cunningly worked to allow maximum airflow. One by one he loaded them with charcoal baked from cow dung, until the lowest level he filled with dry grasses and crumbled crap. Once he coaxed a fire out of that, he sealed all the hatches and worked a vast leather bellows.

The flames worked their way up, slowly, level by level. Soon the wind was roaring into the opening at the very bottom and moaning out the top. No light escaped. Beyond the standing stones were other parts of the hill, and they blocked the ruddy glow. Only the heat boiled up, free, and cast mirages that made the stars dance madly. At night, the only time the forge ran, it was almost impossible to see from a distance.

Lrok was smelting the dead Fradick. He had broken the body to pieces, and was now pounding one arm into a glaive. It would be a spear-mounted blade five feet long, ideal for hacking through light cavalry. The bones and steely flesh of his dead enemy resisted running straight, and it took time to subjugate the metal into the shape Lrok desired. He thought about northern steel, a full man's weight, as he put the mangled limb to his anvil and smashed it straight. His hammer weighed three dozen pounds, and no one but him could swing it one handed.

"Get me Koquo," he suddenly demanded. A human had been sitting outside the baking heat of the furnace, back around one wall, but he heard his masters command. He took off running and shortly returned with one of the guards who had dragged Varad before Lrok that first evening.

"I am here," Koquo announced. He was also around the corner, not facing directly into the heat, and wasn't sure if Lrok had heard him coming over the sounds of his smithing.

"Who set the prisoner's legs?" Lrok demanded.

"No one, Lrok. You did not order it done."

"But his legs are set."

"He must have done it himself."

The horned lord said nothing while he bludgeoned the metal into shape. "He set his own legs? Do you know this?"

"I did not see it done, Lrok," Koquo replied uncertainly.

The pounding stopped. Koquo couldn't hear footsteps over the noise of the furnace, and his uncertainty grew as he realized he didn't know where Lrok was. His master could move very quietly on hard ground.

"Who was watching him?" asked Lrok, very close in the darkness. Koquo blinked and realized that his master had come around the rim of the standing stone to stare at him. It was as he had feared. There was blood on the Lrok's jerkin and bits of brain still stuck in his teeth. The rest had all burned away in the furnace heat.

"I watched to be sure he did not escape, master. I did not watch his actions."

Koquo suddenly wondered if he was about to die. The night was dark and cold, except for the violent heat of the forge. There was a wind in the stones, and it carried the smells of cattle, clustered in for the evening.

"From now on, you should watch his actions," Lrok said softly. "Bring me Farus. Go now."

Without bothering to say anything indicating his agreement, Koquo went. While he was gone, Lrok went back to work. The furnace swallowed charcoal hungrily, and half of the smith's efforts were bent on feeding its hunger. He worked tirelessly.

"Master, I am here," Farus said from the outskirts of the firelight circle. Sooty red shadows danced on the stones behind him, and just being within sight of the forge had drenched him in sweat.

"The prisoner, Varad. Did you know he had set his own broken legs?" Lrok asked, putting a mangled arm back into the furnace. He stepped towards the man so he could hear his reply clearly.

"Yes, master. I watched it."

"Yet you did not tell me?"

"I do not bother you with trivialities. His legs are still broken. He cannot walk and crawls on his belly to the crevice to relieve himself."

Lrok considered this, but failed to find a flaw. "Tell me of it now."

"The mortal was weak. He cried like a child, weeping as a warrior shouldn't," Farus replied.

"How well did he do? Setting his legs," he clarified.

Farus shrugged in the shadows. "He examines them regularly. Sometimes he moves the ties, or re- wraps something, but otherwise leaves them alone."

For a while the horned one piled more charcoal into the furnace and labored in silence. Farus retreated slightly, so the curl of the stone forge walls sheltered him from the blasting heat. When he was finished, Lrok asked, "Was he crying when he began setting his bones?"

"I didn't pay attention. He was weak enough to cry. Does it matter when and how?"

"Yes," the other answered. Farus made no reply. Lrok resumed his toil, and the confined echoes of the great hammer on metal rang through the boulders. Finally the smith continued. "You broke his legs. He set them himself, in agony, while the pain was still fresh. Now you tell me he set them well enough."

Lrok turned and stared at Farus. The blazing white light of the furnace perverted his features into total contrast, and the lines and planes of his face were utterly alien. Only the bone spurs that jabbed out of his skin seemed organic. They cast red shadows on his fire induced pallor.

"He set his own legs, Farus. He says with confidence that his people will pay his weight in steel for him returned. His one concern is that his sword is sent back first. Yet you ask if it matters?"

"Yes, master, I do," Farus replied. His words were calm and determined. "Why does it matter? We are returning him to his people alive. If we break him any further, he will die. We can either kill him or not, and you've made that decision already. So what does it matter if he sets his own bones? Shall I break his arms or his hands, that he can never bear a weapon again? Would you like me to pluck out his eyes? If so, if you think he is such a threat, bid me kill him and be done with it."

Lrok digested this slowly, thinking hard about everything Farus said. "You are sure we can break him no further?"

"Not and let him live. Were we sure exactly when his people would come for him, we might risk it, and let him die in their care. His wounds already flirt with corruption and pestilence. If I do harm to him until he can never hold a sword again, I tell you that I cannot be sure he will live."

Lrok let his hammer rest on the boulder he was using as an anvil. "I can kill him later, if necessary. Go to Koquo, who should be watching him. Speak to the prisoner. Find out who he is, where he comes from, and as much as you can of his abilities."

Taking that as a dismissal, Farus at once rose and left. Lrok spent no more thought on the problem and concerned himself with smithing his dead brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about 400 pages with a 100 odd page first-part/prologue removed. Chapter 1 of the AO3 published version is chapter 13 of the long run (500 page version) but some feedback indicated that the first bit isn't really necessary. This version is more in media res. 
> 
> It is complete. From beginning to end, the writing is finished, but the preparation is not. There are still grammar issues and likely always will be, but also some plot holes that need filling and so forth that I've lacked motivation to do. More than a thousand pages got written, and I'm struggling with the drive to finish up. I hope letting other people read it gets me over that hump.


	3. Chapter 3

Varad woke up to find a short man sitting on a chair by the doorway. The interloper was very lean, and had several braids of thick black hair tied back behind his neck. Even in the dawn they looked greasy. Like everyone else in the consequence, he wore a leather shirt that hadn't been sized well. It hung off him with bad stitching on the sides. His pants were a little better, but they were also belted tightly. They hung in wrinkles.

"I am Farus. I've come to look at your legs," the stranger told Varad when the latter sat up.

"Why?"

"Because if they get infected, you'll die. Then we won't get paid for you."

Varad could think of no argument for that.

The swordsman pulled the horsehair blanket off him and pulled his pants up around his knees. Farus crouched by the bed.

The wounds had all closed by now, and the skin was mostly a normal pink. Splotches of the extremes of white and red popped up here and there. The southerner looked carefully, and then placed his hands just above one ankle. He pressed firmly, but nothing wiggled.

"The bones have set," he observed.

"Yes, I know."

"Then why is it still splinted?"

"Because I crawl two dozen yards to shit three times a day," Varad said flatly. "The splint keeps it immobilized."

"Then why when you sleep?"

"In case someone drags me off to see Lrok."

"Yes. That would hurt."

"It did," snapped Varad.

"I know. I was one of the men who dragged you," Farus agreed.

Varad went silent. His expression hardened, but the other ignored it.

"Would you like to meet the other? Koquo is here as well. Koquo!" Farus called.

A head appeared around the corner of the door, and another braided figure stared in at Varad. He still looked exhausted.

Varad looked back and forth between them and wanted to spit in their faces. He wanted to hurl people through walls. Farus watched him analytically, and then leaned back to sit against the sod wall across the small room. His feet still almost touched the bed. Koquo got bored and pulled his head back outside to stare at the clouds.

"What is your name?" Farus asked.

The swordsman stared at him and sighed, momentarily as exhausted as his captors. He didn't see a point in refusing.

"Varad."

"Where are you from, Varad?"

"Dylath-Leen. I'm in the Red Guard."

"Ah, the Red Guard. The Swordsmen of the Asharai," Farus replied, knowing something of them. "Good fighters. Terrible horsemen, but good fighters. They ring southern cities, don't they? Tyr, Hysterat, a barracks at Asali Al. We know them."

"Yes," Varad agreed blankly. None of this was a secret. Except for the horsemen point, most of the rest was a matter of pride.

"Why are they the Swordsmen of Asharai?" Farus asked. "Are not all the Asharai swordsmen?" His questions were curious and non-hostile.

"The Red Guard are the greatest swordsmen of the lowlands," Varad replied simply.

"And they fight on foot, yes? They man the walls of your southern cities and pull guard detail?"

"Yes," Varad agreed again, still speaking blankly without inflection.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a Swordsman."

"Not anymore. You cannot stand, and your blade is broken. You are a prisoner," Farus pointed out.

"Fine. I'm a prisoner," Varad agreed, apathetic.

"So what did you do?"

"I was a sword fighter."

"And what was a sword fighter doing alone so far from the northlands?" Farus asked again.

"How far from the northlands am I?"

"Does it matter?"

"I want to know when to expect my ransom."

Farus shrugged. "You are two hundred leagues from Hysterat. It will be weeks still. That is, if they ransom you at all."

"They will."

"You are sure of this?" Farus asked.

"They always ransom their own," Varad replied simply.

"You haven't told me what you were doing here," Farus told him.

"Yes, I haven't," Varad replied.

Koquo leaned around the corner to say something, but Farus waved him back in silence. The sentinel frowned but obeyed.

Varad suddenly wondered why this one was ordering the other one about, and why he was suddenly asking questions. He hadn't said anything important, but suddenly an uneasy feeling hit him. The curious expression on Farus's intent face was unaltered, but Varad suddenly lost the stomach for the conversation.

"Is my meal ready? Don't you want me nice and fat to command a high price?" Varad asked pointedly.

Farus stared at him. His expression was patient and curious. The prisoner hoped, suddenly, that this Farus would threaten him with withholding food, or perhaps a beating. Varad bet he would laugh in their faces when they did their best.

"I will see about your meal," Farus said, pulling himself up to his feet. "Lrok has ordered that one of us sit with you at all points. Koquo will do it now while I go."

The two plainsmen switched places, and the larger and quieter Koquo took a seat near where Farus had. Varad turned his head to the wall and tried to ignore him.

 

"His loyalty is weak. He is no redcloak or bears them little allegiance," Farus told Lrok a moment later.

"How do you know this?"

"He called the Red Guard 'they.' He never said 'we,'" Farus explained.

Lrok nodded. He was sitting on a boulder, looking down on the herds below. The riders were breaking the cattle into smaller groups with the dawn, and taking them out to the different dells between rolling hills for the day's grazing. The massive horned man watched them go, picking at a hand with his teeth. There was still some meat on the fingers.

"Then who is he?" Lrok asked.

"A sword fighter."

"The redcloaks are the Swordsmen of the north," Lrok pointed out. "You said he was not one."

"At least, he thinks himself one. He tries not to care, but he has pride about it. I tried to argue, and he avoided that like it would cause him pain."

"He doesn't seem one to fear pain," Lrok replied.

"I doubt you could break him with pain, sir, but threatening his swordcraft would be different."

Lrok noted the shift from 'master' to the less formal 'sir' but said nothing.

"Also, he is very certain they will ransom him," Farus added. A twinge of uncertainty hit him, and he was uncertain if his choice of address was a transgression against due respect. He avoided using any direct term in his next few statements.

"The redcloaks always ransom their own," Lrok replied. "I have heard of this before."

"He is not a redcloak Swordsman, but he was a swordsman. This one thinks the other Swordsmen value him highly," Farus expanded.

"Why is that?"

"I will learn," Farus promised.

Lrok nodded. "Go. Feed him. Unless I decide he must die, he must be well fed. I want him fat."

Farus nodded, then rose from his squat and loped down the rocky hillside. His horned master nodded slowly, and lumbered, squatting while using one hand, to the edge of the boulder he perched on to stare down at the sod hovel his prisoner was kept in. That the northerner was a swordsman just made his death more of a question. Lrok tried to decide if the higher likelihood of the paid ransom meant he should or shouldn't kill the prisoner anyway. He went back to gnawing the flesh off the fingers in thought.


	4. Chapter 4

One afternoon Varad sat on his bed, staring at a wall. His mind was an empty sky. Sensations of the strips splinting the bed legs to his shins entered his head, as did the awareness that the bed still retained two long poles and one short one. Between them they formed the rectangular frame, with the final side comprised of the sod wall, into which the poles were jammed. It rested at an angle, missing legs, that he had ignored at first because he had been exhausted from injury every time he went to sleep. Now he was used to it. The low ceiling and loamy walls filled the room with the smell of dirt in a way that had nothing to do with the scent of filth. Outside it was afternoon, and the shadows wrapped the boulder strewn hillside. Koquo sat on his haunches just inside the doorway, looking lost in his thoughts as well.

The swordsman announced, "I'm going to the cleft."

Koquo shook himself and glanced up. "Whatever," he replied, shrugging. He rose and got out of Varad's way, but did nothing to help as the injured man began his regular crawl towards the split boulder where he relieved himself.

As Varad did his business, a sudden tension ran through the people of the valley. The cattle herds were still out. The consequence had rarely stayed in one place this long, and the herd's tenders were being forced to foray further and further for fresh grazing. Those who remained were already preparing the evening meal. Yet as one they began emerging from hidden places and secreted houses to stare at the western sides of the valley. A lone figure was riding down the hill. He was not of the Consequence of Sudden Conflict, Lrok's people.

Life on the plains did not lend itself to strange visitors, Varad had noted. Even beyond that, the tangible sense of expectation running through the hillside settlement was filled with concern and fear. One by one those who emerged to see the stranger were returning to their homes, and playing children were being quietly summoned into hiding. Koquo had dropped into a crouch and was ignoring Varad to stare at the visitor from behind cover. If Varad had been able to walk, he might have made a run for it.

Instead he finished what he was doing and crawled back to the plainsman's side. "We can return now," he hissed.

Koquo barely glanced at him but wormed away on his belly. Before crawling after him, Varad took another look at the stranger. He stared hard, for now the rider was closer and could be discerned in better detail.

It was another horned lord. The spurs jutting from his skull were longer and sharper than those of either Lrok or Fradick. As he came closer and details resolved to give a sense of perspective, Varad realized this horned one must be huge. Tall grass barely made it to his knees. He looked normal sized on his dark gray steed. Unlike Lrok, he had several spikes jutting out of his skin of his head below the ring about his temple. They stabbed out of his jaw and the back of his head, but none appeared from the center of his face. He wore leather, but his jerkin and pants had been finely tailored around the horns. They stabbed up from his body, through his clothing, like he wore an armor of sharp, blood letting spikes. Only his joints were free of them, though several appeared on the backs of his hands. Several shot forward, past the knuckles, and others swept back above the wrist towards the fore-arm. Varad considered it, and judged this one's natural armor was far superior to either of the horned lords he had met so far. The stranger's growth was either guided or extremely lucky.

It reined in at the base of hill, and dismounted heavily. The ground sank beneath its feet. After removing a single leather wrapped parcel from the beast before turning and walking powerfully up the hill, the figure stormed the hill, driving power from her hips and-

Varad squinted and twisted his head.

Undeniably, she was walking from her hips and not her shoulders. That's where her power came from, and huge as her upper body was, her core was like a buffalo.

The horse began to graze, unhobbled, and the newcomer passed out of sight. Varad crawled after Koquo.

 

Lrok met his visitor near a spring pool. Water bubbled up from between two boulders and filled a shallow, hand carved depression before tumbling away. In the valley it widened, and there the herds drank. There were other streams, and they ran together into a wider creek, almost a small river. That stank of cow manure, though flowers grew bright and dense along its banks. This pool remained exclusive for the consequence. 

"Dhrazud," Lrok acknowledged her with a nod.

"Bow, Lrok," she replied flatly.

The smaller horned lord hesitated. He shot searching gazes around the small grotto but saw nothing but grass swarming over the dirt. This depression had also been dug in by hand, and no traces of the colorful plants showed to bear witness that this place was a better settlement spot than any other. Above their heads the rude, unworked stone rose into the air to stab at the sky. No one was watching.

Slowly, Lrok bent and sank all the way to his knees. They stabbed into the ground, and the mud squished under him. He leaned forward until his forehead touched the dirt, and he prostrated himself in supplication.

Dhrazud stomped his face into the muck up to his ears. Lrok could not breath, and the woman ground his head down, working it in. She did that for a while.

"Never make me tell you to bow again," she ordered, pushing her weight forward until his head was immersed into the mire to his neck. With a final grind, she released him. Lrok pulled his face free with a slurpy hiss and sucked deeply at air. "Did you hear me through the dirt? Never wait until I tell you to bow. Now, you little rat, perhaps you would like to tell me why I'm here?"

For a several seconds Lrok just breathed while runny mud dribbled from the ridges of his face and trickled from his horns. He responded, "It is not for me to tell you anything, Dhrazud. It is for me to listen to anything you choose to say." His forced words sounded unnatural.

"True, little rat. True. It was the wind. The lying, deceiving wind brought me here."

Dhrazud looked down and noticed she had sank into the mud up to her ankles. She trudged out of the mire to a rock and wiped most of the grime off before she continued. "The lying wind told me you had killed your brother Fradick. That cannot be, of course, because you have not asked my permission, nor send me my tribute. Where is the half his body I am owed? You do remember that, don't you? Anyone who kills one of my sons must give me half?" She turned to look at Lrok and gauge his reaction.

He did not show one. Instead he was wiping the fast drying mud from his face. Already most of it had caked into dirt, and the rest was steaming in the cold air.

She continued, "The whispering wind also tells me that you caught a northman. A redcloak. It tells me you are ransoming him back to his people for his weight in northern steel. Does the wind lie?"

Lrok clawed caking muck from his face with his fingernails, trying to figure out a way to admit one without the other. He decided the sidestep the question. "Do you want half a man's weight in fine, northern steel? I would be happy to give it to you in filial tribute, Dhrazud."

"Of course, little rat, but you've screwed that up already. If you had told me ahead of time, we would have the steel to split it. But the wind told the Kahserac, and he wants the redcloak dead. He wants the mortal dead immediately. Now we won't get a inch of steel, and if I'm losing the steel you should have given me, you'll give me Fradick's entire body."

"What does he care for a human?" Lrok demanded.

Dhrazud's head snapped around to glare at her son over her shoulder. "Are you asking me a question, little rat?"

Lrok could not answer, so said nothing.

"What difference does it make?" she said finally. "He heard through the wind that you sent a messenger north with a sword. He drew out a pattern that might match the blade. So it came to me to track this messenger down before he made it to the northlands and see if the sword your messenger was carrying matched the pattern. My best mount almost died getting me to the very borderlands in time to catch your rider, and then when I took the sword he refused to tell me where you lived these days."

"Clearly his will was no match for yours," Lrok replied.

"Of course. I began eating him from the feet. He talked before I got to his waist. But there was no time to finish the rest of him, so I wasted all of his meat and organs beside the brain," she said with disgust.

Lrok said nothing. He stood in the muck that oozed about his sinking feet and listened quietly, staring down.

Dhrazud unrolled the package she had brought and produced a broken sword. The leather wrap had a charcoal drawing on the inside that matched the six pointed star on the Song of Winter's pommel. It also had a sketch of the distinctive snowflake pattern along the blade. In disgust, she tossed them to the mud. Lrok's posture changed, which she noticed.

"You have a question," Dhrazud told him.

"Not, of course, without your permission," he replied. Without waiting, he genuflected again and moved to prostrate himself.

"Keep your face out of the muck. What is it?"

"If the human is wanted dead, and not to ransom, may we eat the corpse?"

"No. The Kahserac wants the corpse brought to him as proof." Then, with sudden hunger, she asked, "Is the human fat?"

"I have fed him well," Lrok replied. "His legs are broken, but he would be a fine meal."

"A damned waste. You should have killed someone for our meal when you saw I was coming," she decided.

"I should have," he agreed. "Shall I do that now?"

"No. You may tell me where Fradick's corpse is, and where I can find horses that will carry it back to the deep south with me. Then you may go kill the human. Don't mangle him too badly. He needs to be recognized."

Lrok winced in pain at the thought of giving up his brother's full corpse. He had just begun to work it. Combined with the pain of losing the mortal's body-weight in steel, the kneeling figure felt agonized by loss. "I obey your bidding."

"Where's your brother?" Dhrazud demanded.

"Between the two highest pillars, there is a forge. His body-metal is within. There are horses tethered by the stream, and they can bear Fradick's body-metal for you. My own horse is there, if you need it. He is young, and not yet injured from bearing me."

"As little as you are, that is no surprise," she replied. "Very well. Go kill the human. Strangle it or something. I'm going to go get my tribute."

She turned and hurled herself out of the grotto. The earth crumbled underneath her feet, meaning she had to climb and claw to drag herself out, gouging great furrows in the earth. When she was gone, the traces of her passage showed a wound in the soil.

Lrok looked sick. For a long moment he stared up after her, thinking about the work he had put into smelting Fradick and the taunts that would now be defunct. Then wearily he rose and trudged through the grasping muck.

 

"Who was that?" Varad had asked Koquo when the two of them were back in the small cell.

"Don't know. It doesn't matter," Koquo had answered apathetically.

"It was female," Varad added, hoping to eke out more of a response.

"It doesn't matter. They were all men or women once, but they aren't any more. One is no different from the rest. Stop talking. I am not Farus."

Continued questions elicited no clarifications, and Varad stopped asking.

He was certain of only one thing, though, and that was that nothing here happened for the better. No arrival of another, larger horned lord to his captor's settlement would improve his life. It would either leave it unchanged or make it worse. While he came to this conclusion Dhrazud was tersely telling Lrok to kill him. Against either possibility, the injured swordsman decided to disassemble his bed. Koquo watched but said nothing. The plainsman did not care.

When Lrok suddenly appeared in the doorway, Koquo glanced between the captive, seated amidst a pile of loose wood and leather sheets, and his master. He pulled himself to his feet to stare at his master's shoulder. The horned lord overtopped him by a full head, and Koquo was taller than Varad. "Begone," Lrok ordered, and Koquo fled.

The northerner glanced at the southern plains-lord's posture and carriage for an instant. He had dried mud caked to his face, burned dry. More was splattered on his hands and knees. The lord stood with his weight evenly spread between his feet, leaning slightly forward. His shoulders were bunched towards the slight hump of his neck, and there was tension in the big hands.

"I see I'm not getting ransomed," Varad observed, wondering if Lrok would explain.

Lrok did not, but he did have questions of his own. "Who are you, northman? Why does anyone care?"

For a moment the captive considered the question. In his serene trance, lying was impossible and he would have to fully arise to speak untruth. "I am Al Varad of the Seven Fingered Palm. My blade is the Song of Winter." Varad replied simply.

Lrok looked baffled, like the words were incoherent. "You are from the Palm? They are the masters of the sword, who stand alone against our kind. You are broken and weak, and I crushed your Song of Winter myself."

"I was injured fighting a dragon." Something inside Varad's head almost clicked. The dragon was a creature who only existed by magic and fire, like the horned lord. There was no way a being with as much metal in its body could move easily like Lrok. It was like two gears half meshed, but there was a missing piece required for them to complete their interface. "In time, I will be whole again.

"No, you're not," Lrok replied. "You're going to die now."

"Will you eat me, cannibal lord?" Varad asked.

"I am no man. Eating men does not make me a cannibal. The coyote is blameless for eating the sheep."

"As are the sheep for killing the coyote."

Lrok grew tired and lunged for Varad's neck. From the floor Varad torqued his body to thrust the soft-wood bed pole with shattering force into the horned lord's eye. His thrust was so fast Lrok didn't have the time to blink before the poplar beam crashed into his right eyeball, and straight enough that the pole could not flex. Instead the force of the strike rebounded onto itself, shattering the pole. Varad rolled sideways with the broken end of the pole clutched tight while Lrok stumbled and crashed into the wall.

The horned-lord ripped apart the wall, tore stone from stone, and destroyed the bed before opening his other eye and searching around. He was alone in the broken room.

Outside, Lrok found Varad crawling away up a hillside. Lrok tried charging after him, but the steep inclined crumbled under his feet. The giant had to reduce himself to crawling like a dog.

He did so until he noticed Farus, dashing around the hillside on horseback and waving his arms wildly for attention. The horned one shot a glance uphill, then at the approaching human, before asking, "What?"

"Master, she's trying to kill you. Do not trust her!" gasped Farus but very quietly as he approached. Immediately he threw himself face down onto the dirt. He turned his head sideways just enough that he could speak. "Her orders, master. They are full of lies."

"What?" Lrok repeated himself in a flatter, far more hostile tone.

"Master, I beg you think. Dhrazud came alone from the deep south, riding one of the few horses which can carry her great weight. She rides it almost to death to catch your messenger, and then does not even finish killing him slowly after finding out where you are. What haste must she have been in, master?

Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "But on arriving she does not kill the mortal herself. She bids you do it. Why would she go to such lengths, but not take the kill herself? And what happens? A man who cannot walk and armed with a stick from his bed escapes. You said yourself there is something unnatural about a man who sets his own broken legs. On those splints, look at what he has done!"

"I am looking at what he has done," Lrok replied, staring up the hill. "He is getting away."

"How far away can he get? He can barely crawl!" Farus pleaded.

"I have noticed this. That is why I am listening to you now. I also noticed you listened in on business that had no bearing on you," the horned one said. His rage was still throbbing at the base of his skull, but it was quiet. Farus's words intrigued him.

"I did, master," Farus agreed. "And I shadowed you to the mortal's cell, where I saw the conflict. Lord of the Sudden Conflict, I asked myself, why would she do this thing? The more I thought, the more troubled I became. Why would the Kahserac send Dhrazud to handle this matter personally, and in justification the prisoner said he intended to kill Hegel. Master, no one can kill Hegel. Yet the man Varad aims to do just that, and the Kahserac does not want him alive. The only meaning can be that the Kahserac fears him. Dhrazud must fear him too.

"If you kill the mortal, she will gain the full weight of Fradick's metal. But if the mortal kills you, then he will be weak and he will be easier for her to kill. Yet you gain nothing. The only outcomes for Lrok, Master of the Sudden Conflict, are death or loss of all Fradick's body metal."

Lrok turned again to watch the struggling human make his way up the hill. They were speaking in low tones, and he doubted Varad would be able to overhear.

"You tell me you think he could win?" Lrok asked with contempt and menace.

"He took your eye with a stick!" Farus implored, still face in the dirt. "He is no redcloak but knows they prize him highly. Master, the redcloaks must fear this man's sword arm and value it above a hundred swords. He has a chance, and either way, you gain nothing by this fight."

That Lrok had admitted to himself, and the ugly injury at the heart of his fury bristled with the truth of it. Absently he removed his impaled eyeball from its socket. It looked deflated, and most of the occular fluid had drained out. He popped it into his mouth and bit through the nerve before stuffing the rusty red fibers into his eye socket. Now his missing eye looked like it cancerously bulged from a gaping hole in his head. Lrok chewed the eyeball absently and swallowed.

"Speak quickly," the giant said.

"Let him go."

"Stand up, idiot. I cannot hear you with your face in the muck."

Farus threw himself to his feet. "Let him go. I will go to him, put him on a fast horse, and send him away. Dhrazud dare not let him escape, but she cannot chase a lone man running for her life if she is leading a team of horses, each bearing a piece of Fradick's corpse. She will have to run at once to her own steed and give chase. She must leave Fradick's body metal."

The man was talking fast. The words tumbled out of his lips in his haste. "You must chase the man on your own horse. Dhrazud orders it. Just don't catch him. Dhrazud has her own steed, a god-horse of the deep south far beyond your own. She will overtake you and have to pass on to catch the man. She cannot complain lest she give you the better horse. Follow them both. If he kills her, take her body-metal for your own, and you will have both her great corpse and Fradick's. If she kills Varad, then maybe you will let her go. But maybe she will be very injured, and then, the outcome will be the same. Only then you have Varad's corpse as well, to send to the Kahserac. He may reward you greatly in the south."

"I see you say nothing of what will happen in the Consequence when I am gone," Lrok noted.

Farus stared stared at him. "My lord, make me one of you. Exalt me, bring the horns from my body. I will rule the consequence while you are gone. If you go south to greater things, you won't need the Sudden Conflict, and I will keep them. I can only gain if you do, and as my sire, you will be protected from me."

"The sheep wants to be a coyote?" Lrok asked with a feeling of deja vu.

"All sheep want to be coyotes," Farus told him. "Above all things, I desire power. I will get it for you, if you reward me in kind. Two coyotes can kill a wolf."

Lrok thought about this as Varad finally made it over a bump in the hill above them. Seeing his target get out of sight made the freezing fury recede, and his mind seemed to defrost. The horned lord ran calculations in an instant, and with each thought his wits swelled. "Very well, Farus. Go. Set the northman free," he ordered. With that he turned and ignored the man as he went back for his horse. He found it easily and then set to making it ready. That took a long time, and Lrok acted with no haste.


	5. Chapter 5

Varad dragged himself out over a lip of the hill and hauled his broken legs through a narrow path between two of the larger boulders. They leaned towards each other above his head, and would have been an easily assent normally. Now he only managed to pull himself upright with the stick and a hand on stone, and was able to hobble a little faster then he had crawled.

Farus met him on the far side. The mounted man was perched forward in his saddle, eyeballing the northman. Varad remembered him talking with Lrok, but had no idea what they had said.

"Northman, do you think you could win?" Farus asked.

Varad played with the question in his head, but didn't discern the meaning. "Possibly. If I had my legs and a blade."

"A horse has four legs," Farus observed simply.

"What do you want?"

"Lrok dead."

The simple answer was so patently obvious that Varad wanted to distrust it. Yet it made such sense. The horned lord ruled the consequence with cruelty and hunger, and somehow the people lived a hollow, empty existence at the whim of such a master. Varad would certainly want Lrok dead in their position. In honesty, he wanted Lrok dead now.

"You'll give me your horse?"

"I'll put you in the saddle myself," Farus assured him.

"And a blade? Anything with an edge?" Varad continued.

"Around that stone there is a stream," Farus said, pointing. "At its head is a grotto. You will find a blade there."

"Done," Varad replied. "Put me on the horse."

Farus slid out of his saddle and slipped under Varad's arm. Between them they got the northman into the saddle. It was a simple affair, and the horse recognized Varad's weakness. Yet the steed did not rebel. It looked back at him with soft, placid eyes, and then sniffed curiously at the blood. Farus inserted Varad's feet into the hardened leather stirrups and backed away.

"Don't flee now," Farus told Varad, trying to sound sincere. "We have a deal."

"I won't," Varad promised and turned to charge off.

At first Farus smiled, pleased. Then he thought back over the northman's words, and realized they didn't sound like lies. That worried him. He glanced at Varad, riding down the hill and around the stone towards the Grotto of Lords. It fed to the open plains too, but also the forge peak where Dhrazud would be waiting.

Farus shook his head. "Don't think of nonsense."

 

Dhrazud found Lrok by the stream. She had a great bundle with her, and crude bits of metal stuck out of it. They were inherently twisted and wrapped in wide panels of leather, tied with thongs. She stared at Lrok curiously when she came around a corner and found him mounted.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"One of my servants gave the mortal a horse. He is fleeing across the plains. I'm going after him," her progeny replied. He checked the twisted black bow at his saddle horn and noted that his quiver was full.

"Little rat!"Dhrazud shrieked. "You let him escape?"

"Not yet. I'm going after him," Lrok replied. He paused to look at her and waited, calculating his chances. Farus' quality as a schemer hung in the balance of her next words.

She glanced at her own horse, a massive midnight black stallion that stood two hands higher than Lrok's at the shoulder. The beast was all over huge, thicker in leg and forelock. There was something distinctly off about its appearance that was plain when next to the other steed. Its head was slightly flatter than usual, and the eyes were black with white veins. The rider purpled with fury before swearing and casting her package to the dirt. Twisted iron of the horned lords spilled out.

"Which of your stupid minions-" Dhrazud began as she grabbed the mount by mane and shoulder. It knelt at once, and she climbed into the saddle. The horse's feet were ebony keratin, but somewhat wider than normal and had thick tufts of hair like a clydesdale's.

"That one," Lrok interrupted her, pointing up the hill at Farus who had come running to see how the plan was going.

"Kill him," Dhrazud snapped.

"Of course," Lrok smirked. He drew the bow, smelted from one of his own kind, and strung it, before putting an arrow to it.

On the hill Farus stopped and stared. Lrok's presence and conversation with Dhrazud had not been according to the human's plan. He saw his master notice him and draw his bow. Farus ran.

"He's gone," Lrok told Dhrazud. "Do I do your will and kill the traitor, or help you chase down and kill the weak human?" He bowed in the saddle, awkward and submissive.

Dhrazud glared at him and curled her twisted features in a snarl. "Kill him," she snapped. "Do as you were bid."

"Of course," Lrok acceded. His feet smashed craters in the sod as he dropped off the horse.

"Which way did the human flee?"

"North," Lrok lied.

"Cursed creature. I cannot recall why I haven't killed you yet," she spat at him, and turned her mount around.

Lrok watched her dash out from between the rocks and gallop around the swell of the hillside. His smirk broadened as he strode over to the bundle of Fradick's body. "I think you tried."

With a grunt he heaved the bag onto his shoulders. It took him a bit more effort that Dhrazud had, but he got it up. Smiling with smug self-satisfaction, he turned to face up the hill when he heard dashing hoofbeats behind him. Thinking it was one of his riders, he turned around.

Varad hit him full tilt with the bed pole. While he hadn't crouched around it like a lance, he did thrust it like a spear and put his weight behind it, hanging onto the side of the horse in the stirrups. It crashed into Lrok's remaining eye and almost detonated into splinters.

Screaming, Lrok went backwards. The huge bag unbalanced him, and after flailing he tumbled to the ground. Varad was already past, charging up the hillside on the quick dappled mare Farus had provided. He paused to scan the neighboring hills, but did not see the other horned lord.

The herds were beginning to return, and they pooled through the narrow valleys of the highland plains. Coming out to meet them were timid faces from the homes on the hill, but many stopped as Varad rode by. They looked at him warily, and the riders who escorted the cattle noticed the lack of greeting. But a thousand head of cattle cannot be stopped easily, and they came on.

"I need a stick," Varad said quietly to one old man. He held a hand out at chest level, roughly six feet from the grass. "About this tall, and smaller around then my wrist."

"What's going on?" the old man asked, ignoring the request.

"I'm going to kill Lrok, and the other one who came to see him. You should either hide or flee." Varad's words were still quiet.

"Can you do that?" the other asked. His words were bleak and flat, sounding empty of hope or expectation.

"Yes. I think I can," Varad nodded. He was not able to read the meaning behind the words, but noted a change that the old man would even ask. It might mean something. "But I need a stick."

The old man darted back into his dwelling, a low sod hut, and returned with a poplar staff much like the ones Varad had used before. "We're going to leave," he said when he handed it up.

"That is wise," Varad agreed. He scanned the hills for the other horned lord again, and then rode to the grotto.

For some reason he had not entirely trusted Farus. Thus he had not come straight here, but instead detoured and briefly engaged the plainsman's master. Now he rode to the lip of the gully and looked down. The dirt and grass had been torn apart, and a single entity had gouged its way up the side with deep set footprints. It was roughly man sized, but clearly weighed much more than a man. He surveyed the mire for a moment. There were hand and knee impressions in the muck by the pool. Varad nodded, and then spotted the broken blade.

He winced and shrank a little in the saddle. Then he took a breath to steady himself and looked around once more for enemies. Not finding the one he was expecting, he urged the mount down into the grotto and towards the blade.

He poked it once with his stick so the edge faced up in the muck, and then speared it. The blade split the poplar pole a half foot up, and then the springy tension of the wood held it fast. Varad retracted staff and blade without getting off his horse and pulled the metal free.

It was broken where the edge ended and the tang began. The blood groove was just beginning to shallow out to rejoin the normal surface at the uneven termination. Looked broken end on, the divisions between different densities of steel could be seen, and the wedge of the hamon serving as a cap for the softer metal of the body. It had been a masterful blade.

Varad sighed quietly before inserting the weapon's broken end into the split on the staff. He wrapped the junction tightly with leather, immersed that in the grotto, and smeared mud on the cowhide. After that he carefully dried and cleaned the blade and rode from the grotto.

Dhrazud was hunched forward in her saddle a dozen yards away, staring at him with burning eyes.

It was impossible not to startle at the sight. She was much bigger than he had expected, for the gigantic horse played havok with his sense of perspective. With them both mounted, she overtopped him by several feet. The crown of spikes that jutted up through her hair reached another hand span above her head, and ringed her face like a helm. She had more all over her torso, and down the line of her shoulders. These were shorter and hooked to point along the line of her flesh. Her entire frame was freakishly massive. Something about her expression of malice made him want to believe she was a man. Yet the difference in bone size between her hips and shoulders was undeniable. The proportions of her arms and legs to her torso was also undoubtedly female. Her small hands served to accentuate the gigantic development of the rest of her body.

It was her eyes that concerned him, though. Lrok's eyes had been red with veins of white latticing them. Hers were a deep crimson, and threaded with lighter reds as well as dark lines that were almost black. They smoldered, not just with fury, but with heat that distorted the air before them until her expression seemed to waver. If that was indicative of the intensity of her body temperature, and that was with Lrok's burning skin as a reference, Varad had no idea how her horse could bear her without suffering horrible burns.

“I saw a horse like that once,” Varad noted. “A man I am going to kill was riding it. It was a great horse.”

“You have no chance,” she replied acidly.

"I am Al Varad of the Seven Fingered Palm. I am, for a short while yet, the Swordmaster of the Red Guard. Do you have a name?" As he spoke he swung the impromptu pole-arm forward and down to a low guard. A slight pressure from his heels put the small horse to a relaxed walk forward.

"You cannot walk; Lrok told me this. There is no way you can survive," she said suddenly.

"Nameless one, you have no idea what I'm capable of."

"It is Dhrazud," she announced.

"Good bye, Dhrazud," Al Varad replied. She said nothing else.

The people of the consequence had emerged from their huts to flee their homes, and many of them stopped to watch. The duel took place high on the hill, and many witnessed it. Koquo saw, though he refused to comprehend, and Farus watched as his hopes crashed down about him. The rest of the people did not understand.

Dhrazud went for her bow and arrows when Varad was still some distance away. Her mount was still, providing her a stable platform, and she wrenched the braided metal wire back. It was notched in one place where the arrow butt fit. Varad charged almost straight at her, and she drew a bead on his chest. He was staring at her shoulders, turned so they lined up with him, and the tension in her hands. Her breathing stopped, and the string hummed. It sang when the arrow shot forward.

Varad dodged in the saddle, and the metal shaft passed through where he had been like a ghost. He slashed up and across, severing the steel wire and her throat. The blade flirted with the very edges of her spinal column and ground against the steel of her bones. Then the snapping bow whipped back and beat her forehead. Deprived of the supporting soft tissue, her spine couldn't endure the strain, and it snapped. She tumbled from the horse and rolled down the grass into the grotto. Varad paused to watch her baleful scarlet eyes grow dull before riding back the way he had come towards Lrok. He caught the reins of Dhrazud's massive charger and lead it away.

 

The blind horned lord had not moved. He sat in the dirt with his hands before him, staring at them with his empty eye sockets. He had picked the splinters and bits of wood from his head, but now rusty red fluid boiled out of his skull. Varad arrived and dispassionately rode up to perform the coup de'tat.

"I hear a horse. Is that you, northman?" Lrok asked.

Varad considered ignoring the question. He looked down at the blind monster, and found himself thinking of Pug when the carriage man had told him he was carrying on a feud with a corpse, Varad had discounted the words. But now he wondered what reason remained to insult Lrok. He was a vile beast, but one about to die.

"Yes. I have returned," the human said.

"Where have you been?"

"Killing Dhrazud."

"Oh." Lrok whispered, shocked. His entire bearing shifted, and to Varad he looked as one deeply surprised. "I had not realized such a thing was possible."

"That's because you don't listen," Varad said bitterly. "I've told you a dozen times. I told everyone. I told-" he stopped, and then added "-Kosle," very softly to himself.

"Are you here to kill me?" Lrok asked.

"Yes."

"I do not want to die."

"We're beyond that now," Varad replied.

"If I tell you something of value, will you let me live?"

"No," Varad refused.

"Your people may still come for you!" Lrok shouted in spite of the refusal. "I sent two messengers, one with your blade, one with the pommel. Some other consequence might have interfered. Dhrazud only found the blade. The handle might still get through."

The northman nodded. It was well. Lrok opened his mouth to say something else but got no words out. With a wide stroke the crude naginata cut through his neck, and his head rolled back to bounce between his shoulder blades, anchored by the spinal column. It geysered blood twice, then the rivulets froze into calcified rust.

"May whatever gods you worship have mercy on you," the northman said quietly and rode away.


	6. Chapter 6

Two weeks later the Red Guard came. Four red-cloaked riders followed a man in dun leather down one of the rolling hills, and behind them came a small wagon. It was driven by two more men, also cloaked in red, and pulled by a two-by-two team. Along side it rode two dark-cloaked women, and two more horses followed behind, tethered to the wagon.

“This is the Consequence of the Dawn,” the short southerner told them. His skin and clothes were the same color, one bleached by the sun as the other was tanned by it. Now his entire form looked like old hide. He spoke in the gutteral tongue of the south, full of hard consonants and sharp vowels.

“But this is not where Lrok waits with the Swordsman,” one of the women said in the same speech.

“No. It is only a place to stop for the night. There is no horned-lord here. I will go ahead and make sure it is safe.”

She nodded, and the small rider went ahead.

They were in a vale between two rolling hills, and springs of cool sweetwater bubbled out of the ground. It looked much like the site of Lrok's forge at the home of Sudden Conflict, though none of the northerners knew that. The grass was a mix of brown and green, more verdant by the water. High hills hid them from the rest of the world, and the tall plants beat endlessly atop their crests. Down in the hollows it was still and hot, and only faint breezes broke up the summer heat. Both of the women were sweating copiously, with an unfamiliarity towards the heat that set them across from the redcloaks.

All eight of them sat and waited while their guide rode alone towards a settlement. Like all the others, it looked empty, and every sign of human habitation was hidden. This one remained so even as the guide went up among the rocks. Soon it was clear the barren appearance was not just camouflage. The short guide rode around until he found a lone figure sitting by a fire pit, deeply dug into the grass. It burned dried cow dung from absent herds and produced little smoke. The tender himself was seated among the grass, and invisible until they knew where to look. The guide reined in next to him, and they spoke for several minutes. The others watched them and the terrain around, looking for a sign of ambush. Their guide sprang back into his saddle and fled the valley.

"That can't be good," the passenger on the wagon determined. It was Ve Pittin.

"Less talking, more watching," Svir Garin, the driver, chastised him. To the woman who had spoken earlier he said, "I think this falls under your area. Would you like an escort?"

"No," she replied. Both ladies were very short, and even on horseback seemed dwarfed by their companions. The speaker wore leather armor that fell about her frame flatly, hiding the shape of her body. As she spoke she removed her leather helmet and tucked it into her belt. Her hair was very dark, and she had round features and an oval face. Flecks of lighter brown spotted her irises, making a dozen colors in them. The beginnings of wrinkles spread from her eyes. Her name was Aryce, and she carried only a knife. "I'll do this alone. Morraine, stay here."

Her companion had not removed her leather helm, but it did not cover much of her face. She turned to frown at the other woman but said nothing. Her features were similarly round, and compared to the men the two resembled each other closely. Morraine however had a slightly larger jaw, and her hair was noticeably brown. She was younger, and her nose lifted at the tip. But her eyes were the same deep color, and if her skin was less lined, it was the same dark tan. She wore lamelar armor, hundreds of overlapping plates tied together with leather thongs, and had three knives tucked into her belt, as well as a straight sword. Her armor shifted when she shrugged in acceptance of her orders. Rigid as the leather was, it did not even ripple with her movements. Both she and Aryce looked sexless in their utilitarian gear.

"What do you want the rest of us to do?" Garin asked Aryce.

"Keep your eyes open," she replied. She considered the silent hillside and their fleeing guide. "Have your helmets on hand but don't put them on yet."

The driver nodded, and he told the other red cloaked riders to get their equipment from the wagon. One by one they filed past, and he handed each a heavy steel great helm with no visor. When worn, the helmets provided sight through a broad, T-shaped slit that was fully reinforced with internal steel plates. They took them without comment. All of the Red Guard wore red linen surcoats, but they jingled when they moved with hidden mail. Their motions were slow. Each of them had a shortsword hanging from their belts next to thick leather gloves. As Aryce rode away they slipped on the leather gloves and flexed their hands to get them to sit right. Their knuckles were reinforced with steel plates, like the toes of their boots. Even among the lowlanders, these were big men, and they looked around the valley constantly.

Aryce approached the lone man and greeted him politely. "Good morning. I am Lady Aryce."

The man ignored the hint.

"I'm looking for a place to stay the night, and a guide to the southern home of Lrok," she continued when he did not introduce himself.

"He's dead," the man replied sullenly, not looking up from his work.

Given the guide's suddenly flight, this did not surprise Aryce. "Then I am looking for Al Varad. Do you know him?"

The man turned away from his work to acknowledge this. "He's the one who killed Lrok."

Her expression remained unflappable. "Where can I find him?"

"He'll be along shortly. You can go looking for him if you want," the man replied, turning back to his work.

"Who are you?" she asked as pointedly as she could manage.

"Tituk," he replied unwillingly.

"Where is Al Varad, Tituk?" Aryce asked again with unrelenting directness.

"He's around the other side." Tituk snorted with an aggrieved tone.

"Thank you," Aryce replied, smiling gently at him. All traces her demanding will vanished. "We're going to go around and meet him now. Thank you for your help."

Tituk snorted but said nothing else. She turned and rode back to her companions to quickly relate everything that had been said.

The party took the news with an exchange puzzled looks, but none of the riders said anything. Pittin commented that it looked like their trip was a waste of time, but Garin reacted with smug satisfaction.

"I told you!" he announced proudly. "You all heard me when I said it. He may have been taken alive, but everyone was going to be dead by the time we showed up!"

"The messenger said both of Al Varad's legs were broken," Aryce pointed out. She turned her steed's head around and began circling the rocky hill. Everyone else fell in around her with enough space between them to react to an ambush. It was instinctive, and no one gave any orders.

"He's a swordsman from the Palm," Garin pointed out. "I've seen him in action. You, of all people, should know what that means," he added, addressing Morraine.

"I'm not from the Palm," the heavier armored woman countered shortly.

"But you were trained on a mountain, and you know the sword," Garin pointed out.

"There are a lot of mountains in the high country," Morraine retorted, clearly irritated. "And a lot of swordsmen. Don't make assumptions about all of them."

"Bah. I'm still right," Garin replied, self-satisfied.

Morraine said nothing else and rode in silent irritation. Aryce remained silent and kept her eyes open, while the other riders cradled their helmets in their off hands, ready to snap them into place.

Around the back side of the hill they found a lone rider dashing through a winding course of marsh reeds. Atop each reed was a hard brick of charcoal, and he struck at them with a wooden pole, knocking them around. A wind was funneled through the valley, and the reeds bowed and bent before it, sending the charcoal bricks in elaborate, unpredictable waves. Occasionally the rider missed, and his pole swished through the air. On his back was a tattered leather cloak, ripped asunder below the shoulders. He was riding a gigantic black stallion that made him look like a child.

"Hey, Swordmaster! You're out of uniform!" Garin bellowed as they came into sight.

Instantly the rider turned, and the horse reared under him to spin on its hind legs. Al Varad stared in shock at the slowly approaching party, and then hurled the pole into the dirt. He dashed over, beaming in spite of himself.

"You also need a haircut!" Pittin added.

"And a shave," one of the other riders added.

"And you're ugly!" yelled another. Garin shot him a baffled expression, but the rider just smirked and shrugged.

Varad came to the side of the wagon and leaned over to embrace Garin and shake Pittin's hand. The other redcloaks clustered around him and exchanged greetings while insulting his personal appearance and hygiene. They were introduced as Ve Hoki, Ve Aryst, Ve Clael, and Ve Saph. Hoki seemed to know Varad, but the Swordsmaster could not recall the young man's face. Aryce and Morraine moved back and out of the way, not to intrude on the impromptu ceremony. After a moment Morraine started sniffing the air, curiously.

"Cow dung," Aryce judged calmly. She spoke, as they usually did when talking to each other, in a highland dialect. The lowlanders could understand it, but not easily, and barely at all if spoken quickly.

"Potent," Morraine agreed.

After the excited yelling had calmed down, Garin beckoned the two women over and introduced them. "Al Varad, this is Lady Aryce. She's a negotiator from the high country. This is her bodyguard, Morraine, also from the high country."

"Eidys Peak," Morraine added.

"Heard of it, never been there," Varad replied, still smiling. He shook Aryce's hand warmly with a nod of his head, and greeted Morraine in kind, though without the slight bow. "It's very good to meet you both," he added.

"Thank you. I'm glad to see you're looking well," Aryce observed, acknowledging his nod with a similar gesture. Morraine noticed that she hadn't gotten a nod and said nothing else.

Varad couldn't say anything. He opened his mouth to reply, but instead just sighed and smiled.

"Swordmaster, fix yourself," Pittin interrupted and threw a red bundle at him. Varad unwrapped it, and found himself looking at new cloak of deep scarlet. He grinned and clasped it on.

"Also, you smell like cow shit," added one of the other men, Clael. The grinning Swordsmaster shrugged.

"Are we secure right now?" Morraine asked, breaking up the interlude.

"No, not really," Varad said, trying to be serious but smiling anyway. It was incongruous with his words. "I haven't seen a scout party in a couple weeks, but one could arrive. We should leave soon and ride quickly."

"Then let's go," Garin replied.

"Yes. Let me get my weapon. It's broken, but-" Varad agreed.

"Weapon," Garin interrupted, hastening him on. "If we're leaving, let's leave. Ve Hoki, Ve Aryst, go with him and don't let him out of your sight."

The two chimed in with affirmatives and then the three rode to the hillside. Garin turned to Clael and Saph. "Make a lap of the valley. Look around and try to find Tituk's horse. Don't steal it or anything, but find out if he's got one.”

They nodded as one, and rode off. Finishing establishing security for even their short halt, Garin turned to the others. "Ve Pittin, go up that hillside and check around. Then do the same on the north. Morraine, accompany him."

“As you say, Head,” Pittin acknowledged.

Morraine glanced at Aryce for confirmation. The Lady nodded, and her bodyguard rode back to meet Pittin who was climbing into the saddle. The negotiator nudged her horse closer to the wagon, but neither she nor Garin said anything else until the other two were out of earshot.

Garin stared up the hillside, but it was Aryce who spoke first. "If you're going to give Morraine orders, phrase them in the form of a request. I'll speak with her so she understands, but that's how we do business."

"Very well," he agreed.

He looked at the hillside, and back at the wagonload of fine steel ingots and scale behind him. His face was blank.

"Svir?" she asked.

"Please," Garin said the word carefully, stressing it and the politeness of it. "Don't say anything to Al Varad about the Baron or Kosle. I'll tell him when the time comes."

"When do you intend to tell him?" Aryce asked.

"On the ride back. I'll tell him when the two of us have a moment of privacy."

"I should be there for that conversation," Aryce replied.

"Ma'am, you aren't a redcloak," Garin pointed out, skirting direct contradiction.

"Yes, Senior Swordsman, I know." She did not accent the rank as Garin had the 'please' earlier, but it was there. "Is this important?" she asked.

"Very," Garin explained. "It's a matter of reciprocal loyalty. Especially after all this, he shouldn't be confronted with the Baron's will with observers around."

"And I'm an observer?" she asked dryly.

"You aren't a redcloak, ma'am. Please let me handle this."

Aryce watched the rock studded hillside where Varad had gone, and then checked the surrounding ridges. Pittin was crouched on one, presenting a low silhouette, and looking around while Morraine was several yards below the crest with the horses. After a long moment he rejoined her, and they descended to circle around to the north. Their motions were quick but unworried. Aryce turned back to the senior non-commissioned officer and nodded. "Perhaps if you handle this in the way of the Red Guard, you and your should men deal with us in the way of the Highlanders."

"Thank you," Garin replied. The implications of her words were not lost on him, and with his acknowledgement the dichotomy of power between them grew codified. "Have you told Morraine?"

"No. There was no reason to unless Al Varad tries to run."

Garin laughed silently, little more than a forceful exhalation. "He won't run."

"What if he does?"

"Just let him go," Garin replied. "You can't stop him, and there's no reason to die over it."

"An odd sentiment coming from a soldier," Aryce observed.

"You've been an officer too long, ma'am," Garin answered with amusement. "That's the sentiment of every soldier."

 

Varad rode back ahead of Hoki and Aryst. He was carrying his makeshift spear with the swordblade and the congealed, rusted reinforcement around the junction, leading two other horses, Lrok's immense beast and the similar one that had belonged to Fradick, while still riding the bigger one that had belonged to Dhrazud. Hoki and Aryst came along behind with eyes sharp for ambushes.

"What are those?" Garin asked.

"Horned-lord horses,” Varad explained. “They're bigger than men, so they ride bigger horses. They'll show people what I mean when I say the horned-lords aren't like us.”

"What are you talking about?" Aryce asked.

"They're not people," Varad tried to explain. "When a horned lord dies his body changes. It turns into metal, and instead of blood they bleed rust. That's how they get their weapons. They kill each other and smelt their bodies. Even when they're alive there's metal in them. They aren't hurt as much by normal weapons, nor do they die easily. "

“They're monsters?” she asked skeptically.

“They're made of metal, and they eat people. What else would you call them?”

“We can talk about this later,” Garin interrupted. Clael and Saph were returning. They reported that Tituk did have a pony, but they had not found any weaponry.

“Not that that means anything, Svir,” Clael added. “We didn't take the time to search, and even if we had we wouldn't have found anything. Not with this whole valley to hide it in.”

“No help for it,” Garin judged. “We'll have to trust in luck and armor. Tether the Swordmaster's horses to the back of the wagon. We'll swap them into the team later, but I don't want to take the time to do that now.”

“I heard a southern bone-bow will put an arrow right through chainmail, Svir,” Ve Clael asked as he and Saph hastened to obey.

“Don't confuse 'can' with 'always will,'” the senior man corrected them. “And there's a big difference between a clean shot at close range and a wild shot from two hundred yards. Less talking, more working.”

“Right,” Clael assented and went silent. He and Saph worked quickly and quietly while the others watched the hillsides and waited for Pittin and Morraine.

“Al Varad, how unsecure are we?” Garin asked, hearkening back to their earlier exchange. “Are you actively being pursued?”

The short highlander pursed his lips and thought. “Probably,” he concluded. “Dhrazud might be late reappearing at the Kahserac already, which means they might have sent someone else. Still, it will be time before they get to the abandoned home of the Sudden Conflict, and the trail will have gone cold.”

“Are you sure they'll know you escaped?” Garin pressed.

“They'll know something,” Varad agreed. “I left dead horned-lords everywhere.”

“While I think we're all quite curious as to what happened to you, I'm sure Svir Garin is most interested from a tactical standpoint,” Aryce told Varad. She suggested, “Since he's handling our security, why don't you ride with him so you two can talk about any dangers?”

The Swordmaster shrugged and glanced over at the Svir. Garin nodded.

“That would be best. Well, come along, Al,” Garin told him. “You can give us all the full story later, but I want to know who's liable to be chasing you now.”

Varad looked torn but rolled out of the saddle. He settled onto the springy soil. A month ago it had been torn apart by the herds, but it had also been well fertilized them. The infrequent rains had brought green shoots up through the dirt. Varad walked gingerly to the wagon.

This did not go unnoticed. "What's wrong with you?" Garin asked. He straightened up and the others were watching the object of their mission curiously.

Varad unwillingly admitted, "They caught me because my legs were broken. They're mostly healed now, but I don't walk very well."

"And when were you going to mention this?" Garin demanded. "I had been wondering why you stayed in the saddle. Lady Aryce's bodyguard knows something about tending wounds. When she gets back, have her check you out. In the meantime, tell me who wants you dead this time and what you did to piss them off."

Varad nodded. His good cheer at familiar faces began to reinstate itself, prompting him to mention, “It's not my fault. People I don't even know dislike me.”

“That I believe,” Garin snorted.

Hoki asked, "How did you fight all those horned lords if you can't walk?"

"Because I'm the greatest swordsman you've ever known!" Varad retorted with false vanity.

"He means in the real world," Aryst clarified.

Varad chuckled. The redcloaks, even serious Garin, were openly pleased at the successful and relatively painless achievement of their goal, and were flushed with victory. One of their own had been rescued. Now even the Swordmaster was being influenced by their good humor. Only Aryce wasn't grinning broadly. She remained serene but wore a subdued expression of satisfaction.

"Two reasons. The first is I got my sword back, and the second was I got a horse," Varad answered.

"You're sounding like a whitecloak," Garin observed.

"Think he likes horses like a whitecloak, Svir?" Pittin asked Garin with false seriousness in a conversational tone. He affected to pretend the Al couldn't hear, but there was no way this could be true.

"Well, he has been here for a long time, and I heard it gets lonely on the plains," Saph answered for his superior.

Garin nodded and turned to Varad. "He's got a point. And I noticed you did bring three big, meaty stallions back with you. Do we need to pitch a separate tent for you and the horses?" he asked.

Varad affected a lofty expression of indignant silence. The others continued to harangue him mercilessly. Only Aryce remained silent, who listened to their accusations of perversion with a matronizing expression of tolerance.

Soon after Morraine and Pittin returned. They reported that there was no sign of human life. They had two hours until sunset, and Garin intended to use it to put some distance between themselves and this place. When they were ready to go he set the order of movement.

"Ve Hoki, Ve Saph, take point. Stay fifty yards ahead of the wagon. Ve Pittin, you're on the right, Ve Clael, the left, and Ve Aryst is in the rear. Keep your spacing, but sing out if you're going out of sight. Don't just wander off to investigate something without letting me know. Al Varad, you'll be riding with me. Morraine, would you join us? Al Varad said he was injured, and I'd appreciate it if you checked him over."

Garin did not so much as flick his eyes at Lady Aryce, nor did she make any sign of recognition. Morraine glanced at her though, and she nodded. Garin turned to the female officer. "Would you ride beside the lead pair, watching the road, ma'am? Same as the way down."

Aryce nodded again. Garin glanced back at the party. "Questions?" There were none. "Everyone refilled your canteens and ate something?" Everyone had. "All right. Saddle up, boys."

Shortly they were heading away. Varad looked out the back of the wagon at the disappearing rocky hillside but felt nothing. With a shrug he ignored it and turned to Morraine.

The woman had settled herself on the pile of forged steel ransom with her back to the seat. "All right. What's wrong with you?"

"When I landed I broke my legs," Varad answered simply.

"Landed?" she asked.

"I got knocked off a dragon." Varad's tone did not invite further questions.

Morraine blinked. "Of course. Take off your pants."

Now Varad stared at her uncomfortably. The bed of the wagon was uncovered, and the red-cloaked riders were watching with great amusement.

"Now," Morraine clarified.

He did, and she moved from her seat to crouch over them. At once she went to his shins, and carefully manipulated the skin and muscles. Varad set his face in a frown but didn't react beyond that.

"Who set these?" she asked after finishing his left leg and beginning to explore the right.

"I did," he said.

That stopped her, and she looked up. Varad looked at her defensively, expecting a critical remark.

Morraine stared at him hard, looking for any signs of falsehood. She didn't want to believe that, but finally asked, "You set your own legs?" seeking confirmation.

"Yes."

Morraine nodded slowly then returned to her work. Finally she told him, "The bones have started mending, but they aren't healed yet. Have you been walking?"

"I ride as much as possible," he replied, not exactly answering. "And I practice until they ache."

"Your practice is slow? Low impact?" she asked, digging for information.

He nodded. "Sometimes I wear a brace as well."

"What kind of brace?"

"A rod wrapped in leather."

"I'll get you a better one." She sat back and motioned him to put his pants back on. Then she had him remove his shirt and gasped.

"Vyer to my aid," she swore in astonishment, and Garin snapped his head back to look.

Varad's back was on fire. It smoldered quietly and seethed under the skin. That was mostly gray and in some cases black. When she touched him, charred skin fell off in flakes of ash and malicious heat beat against her palm. Licks of flame boiled up between her fingers. Garin stopped the wagon.

"Dragonfire," Varad said.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Morraine exclaimed.

"You have no idea," he said calmly.

Without another word Morain grabbed a canteen and upended it over his back. The water hit and sizzled, and a cloud of steam belched up. At once the licking flames went out. Morraine checked again, and the skin was still unnaturally hot. Dissolved ash ran down his back, painting black lines between the muscles.

"It goes out," he said and paused, unsure of his words. "It hasn't bothered me in a few weeks."

Morraine stared at him.

"The horned lord Fradick, he was the one who initially caught me, gave me these when he touched me. They healed normally," Varad said and showed the burns on his wrists for comparison. "The dragonfire keeps burning, though. It comes with the floating city."

"Morraine?" Garin asked. The team was knickering to each other, and Aryce had ridden back to stand beside the wagonbed. She looked at Varad's burned body without reaction. The outriders were looking in as well, but Garin waved at them, chiding them to return their attention to possible hazards.

"The floating city?" Morraine asked, taking refuge in medical detachment. She ignored the Svir's question.

"Hegel took the coffin to a floating city," Varad explained. "He came on a dragon when Garin, Pittin, and I boarded the corsair that was pulling it off the bottom of the bay. He flew up, behind the sun, and there was a city up there." Varad paused, and had to force himself to continue his explanation. "I've been hallucinating it pretty much constantly. It hovers overhead in my dreams, and in the sky when I'm awake."

"You see it right now?" Morraine asked.

"There," he replied and pointed at part of the sky.

Morraine didn't look where he indicated. "Are you lying to me?"

"No," he said simply but sincerely.

"Svir Garin?" Morainse asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Both Pittin and I can confirm the dragon," he replied. "We didn't see anything about a floating city, but that was after we split ways." He glanced up where Varad indicated, but that patch of sky was empty and devoid of even clouds.

"You see a city up there?" Morraine asked.

"All the time."

"Does it move when you move your head?"

"No."

"Can you see it when you close your eyes?" she continued, now staring hard at his eyeballs.

"Yes," he said. "If I'm facing the right direction."

"Look at me," she instructed, and then put her hands on his face to lift the eyelids. She tilted his head and carefully inspected both eyeballs. "And you still see it?"

"Yes. It's at the edge of my peripheral vision, but it's there," he explained.

Morraine turned his head around until the point was within the center of his vision but he wasn't looking at the sun. She observed the way his pupil's contracted, and searched his irises again. There was no scarring nor foreign matter. She let her hands drop.

"You said it remains constant, but it comes and goes with the dragonfire," Morraine mentioned. "Explain."

"Morraine?" Garin interrupted again.

"You can keep going," she answered, not turning her head.

Garin waited for an explanation but got nothing. He flicked his glance at Aryce, and scowled, flicking his head back to her bodyguard indicatively. The Lady nodded and held a hand up reassuringly. Svir Garin urged the team to a walk again. Aryce broke away and returned to her forward position watching the way through the waving grass.

"Sometimes it's very distant, barely more then a speck," Varad was saying. "Other times, when the fire is smoldering, it seems very close. Until you doused my back, it could have been only a few miles away. Now it's very small, and visible only as a black dot against the sky."

Morraine was thinking hard, and she reached around to touch the charred skin on his back. It was still unnaturally warm. "I assume you've bathed, washed your back, and so forth?" she asked.

"Most every day," he agreed.

"And?"

"It feels better," he admitted. "It helps."

She turned him around to inspect his back again. It was a gnarled mass of deep burns. They should have killed him weeks ago, and the ugly scaring wasn't helping. When she had him move his arms, the flesh underneath rippled like normal musculature existed, but those muscles shouldn't have had the tendons necessary to anchor to the bones. She was hit at once by a feeling of powerlessness to deal with the problem that segued into a subtle fury. It was an old friend, that fury. She knew it by name.

"Put your shirt back on," she told him and moved back to her seat. "The next time we stop in a place with running water I'll examine you again. In the meantime, tell me if anything changes."

Varad submitted to her orders with a nod of his head and did so. Morraine reached out for the line tethering her horse to the wagon and drew it in so she could transfer to the beast without touching the ground. Mounted, she untethered and rode ahead to join her superior. After Varad was fully dressed, he climbed forward and sat down next to Garin.

"There is always something wrong with you," the non-commissioned officer informed him.


	7. Chapter 7

18

Some time later during the ride Aryce and Morraine drifted ahead and talked quietly, leaning towards each other in their saddles. Varad asked, "What do you think they're talking about?"

"Lady Aryce is explaining that my requests aren't requests," Garin told him. "She has rank in the highlands, on par with a thane. I believe she is called a hierarch. Technically she and Morraine don't fall under our chain of command, nor we hers, but the Baron of Dylath-Leen gave her command of this expedition. She's another officer, so treat her like one."

"So she's in charge?"

"Yes, but I'm still Head."

"Technically, I outrank you," Varad mentioned.

"Are you about to get stupid?" Garin asked pointedly.

Varad's reply came with a grin. "I've got one thing left to do, and I'm out, Senior Swordsman. I'm not going to make any waves."

They rode quietly, and the outriders kept their eyes out for ambushes. The ride was quiet.

"We're meeting the Baron in Tyr," Garin said suddenly. "He's ransoming Kosle from the horned devils."

"They have his body?" Varad asked, lurching through logic to put that together with other things he knew.

"No," Garin corrected him. "Kosle's alive."

Varad was so shocked he nearly threw up. His face went white and taut. "That's not possible."

"It happened. Word came while we were putting together your retrieval mission. A merchant party south of Tyr were shown the Prince, and he exchanged certain passwords with them. He's alive and taken care of, much as you were. They have him in the Ungale.”

"Not possible," Varad said again. "I carried his corpse to the Hysterai to have him encoffined."

"Al Varad, he's alive," Garin said flatly. "He walks and talks."

"No. Kosle was dead and laid in that coffin. I put him there myself. I watched it sealed around him just to be sure there could be no question."

The older man shrugged. "You'll have the opportunity to discuss it with him," he said.

 

They went north first to get out of the lands of the plainsmen. Soon the distant mountains rose from the horizon like low blue shadows. The three who came from there, the lady Aryce, Morraine, and Al Varad, noticed that the air was becoming crisper. None of the other redcloaks noticed that it thinned as the ground sloped upwards, nor was the slope itself apparent with the rolling hills of the highland plains. Now the ground was far from the nearly oceanic flats of the deep southland. The hillside den of the Sudden Conflict Consequence had been between the two regions. As they went north the ground rolled into foothills before the Doon Mountains. Now also there were trees. Pines from the Doon swept down by spring floods grew alongside the banks of the little rivers and streams. A few deciduous copses sprouted flourished as well. The winters were mild in the shelter of the mountains.

The first night they sheltered in a small basin atop an isolated tor. Their small fire was invisible from beyond, and no higher ground looked down into the depression. Garin set watches and gave himself last so he could ensure everyone was awake for morning practice.

"Al Varad, are you healthy enough to lead exercise in the morning?" he asked.

"If you don't mind me coaching and not participating, Svir," he accepted.

"If that's what doc Morraine told you to do," the Senior Swordsman acknowledged. Speaking of her, he turned to the highland bodyguard. "Would you like me to wake you up for practice in the morning?"

Morraine had been brushing down her horse, a gray stallion but stopped. She was not sure if this was a true question, or simply phrased that way out of politeness. She decided to err on the side of her superior's wishes. "I'd be happy to join you."

Garin nodded. "Lady Aryce?"

"I'm not a swords-woman," she demurred with a faint smile.

"It's a good thing to know," Garin urged.

The negotiator glanced around and found herself at the center of attention. Pittin was staring at her with amusement, while the four younger swordsmen wore expressions of simple curiosity. Morraine was trying hard not to look like she was watching. The lady glanced at Varad and found him meeting her gaze flatly.

"We'll be doing the basics, ma'am," Varad told her. "Some movement, stance transition, probably footwork and spacing. It's the foundation of excellence, but you don't have to worry if you're not familiar with our style."

"We rarely show outsiders how we train," Garin added, and she knew he spoke the truth. "This will be an exception."

"Very well," she assented. "I'd be honored."

"Good. Ve Pittin, you're cooking. Ve Hoki, go take first watch. Ve Aryst, set up his blankets as well as your own so he's got a place to sleep. Ve Clael, help me with the horses, and Al Varad, you just try not to get broken any more," he snapped out final instructions. Varad rolled his eyes and said he would do his best. They bedded down for the evening and soon slept under a star swept sky.

 

Some time after midnight when the moons were crossing near the horizon Varad awoke to see Pittin and Aryst talking quietly. Aryst should have just awoken the other for his shift according to the schedule. The injured man slid from his blankets and crept softly into the night to do his business and returned to find them still talking.

"Good evening," he said, gliding into their conversation. The short, mincing steps he took to eliminate any impact on his legs were nearly silent, but they had spotted him coming.

"How are you doing, limpy?" Pittin asked.

"Getting better. I could walk normally, but I try not to," he replied. "What are you two up to?"

"The Ve was telling me about Muyr, Al Varad," Aryst said.

"The Ve?" Varad repeated with amusement, glancing at Pittin.

"I got promoted to File Leader about a month ago," the tall swordsman replied. "Now the younger guys get to call me by my full rank."

"You're making them do that?" Varad asked surprised.

"I don't. Aryst was doing it because he didn't know if you cared. Otherwise I'm fine except when we're around Garin or officers," Pittin explained.

Varad looked curiously at young Aryst. "You thought I cared about rank?"

"Well-" the other waffled, and Varad noticed he was standing halfway at attention.

"Oh, relax," Varad waved at him, and Aryst slouched back into a comfortable position. "I'm almost out. Just do what Pittin does and play by Red Guard rules when someone who cares is around."

"He's a short-timer," Pittin agreed, speaking to Aryst as if that explained everything.

"Congratulations," Varad added to Pittin. "For picking up File Leader," and they shook hands.

"It's another mark a month," the bigger swordsman agreed as if that was the most important thing. The other shrugged, and Aryst remained silent.

"When are you picking up your Ve?" Varad asked the quiet man.

Aryst shrugged. "Hopefully when we're done with this. Garin said he'd put us all up for it if we do right. Pittin should have had his years ago."

"Because you don't get shit for rank in Muyr," Pittin explained as he had many times said before. "I swear, that copper-squeezing commander down there won't promote anyone if he can avoid it. I ever tell you we once went a year with only three Svir's between five cohorts?"

"Isn't there supposed to be one per?" Varad asked.

"And two for the command staff. We had three total," Pittin replied. His voice rose in irritation, and Aryst hissed at him. The tall man nodded, and continued once again in a whisper. "Anyway, I'll tell you more about it tomorrow. Ask Garin if he'll put you on point with me, and we can ride and talk."

"All right. Good night Pittin, Varad." The young man replied. He neglected Varad's rank with overly casual familiarity. They murmured to him to sleep well, and he headed back to his blankets.

The other two stood in the still night air for a long time. A warm wind blew up from the south and over the hillside, and it ruffled their cloaks. Rhys, the faster moon, was only a crescent, and Voll was waning, They shed little light, but the skies were empty of clouds. Wrapped in their cloaks the men could have been rocks, yet the world was laid before them in stark monochrome.

"Let's move away from the sleepers a bit," Varad said suddenly. "You told me before you didn't have much to do in Muyr but practice. I'd like to see."

"Fine. Tell the Svir, and I'll run while you watch."

Varad agreed, and the lanky swordsman descended to run forms by starlight.

 

They began in the morning before dawn. The eastern edge of the sky was beginning to glow orange, and there was just enough light to see. As promised, Garin had rousted them all, and they assembled in the vale below the dell. Lots were cast, and Clael was omitted from practice to keep watch. He retreated to sit on a low hillside, his silhouette camouflaged by a prickly bush. The others went to work.

During the night Varad had pondered how to run practice. He had considered running them through a horrific series of physical drills that would reduce the strongest of them to exhaustion. Instead he guided the group through a short set of movements that covered all the basic transitions, and then repeated it in different patterns and speeds. An hour later they stopped to ride with the sun. Sweat dripped from all their faces save Morraine. The lady Aryce looked like a drowned rat.

They rode all day but seemed come no closer to the soaring mountains. Those were distinct now, blue shadows mounting to white caps outlined with black rocks. Below the grass looked brown, yet it was filled with green shoots wherever they rode. That night they camped in much the same fashion, save another hour of drill by twilight.

When they finally hit the Doon they followed the outermost valley, a long lateral depression where eons of spring runoff had carved a riverbed. It was full of greenery, and fallen pine needles provided a smooth ride for the wagon. At night the wind turned and blew cold form the mountains. The redcloaks not on guard wrapped themselves tightly in their sleeping bags, but neither Morraine or Aryce bothered to. Varad tried to ignore the chill and nearly gave up sleeping before abandoning his pride. They practiced morning and night. Nothing in the valley broke the spell of quiet peace save the occasional ominous charred tree trunks that stood amidst the cedars and yew. Fires swept through the valley at least once a decade and funneled by the vale's banks, burned everything to the ground in hundred mile long swaths.


	8. Chapter 8

19

Nestled in the western chutes of Mount Illiareth, the westernmost extension of Doon, three boroughs of the of Hysterat ringed the side of the mountain. The highest of the boroughs abutted Cutter, an old stone fortress that ringed Illiareth's broad crown. The lowest was close enough to the pine barrens that watchtowers were its only defense from wildfires. In between the city sat in modest prosperity.

The group emerged from the pines onto the road running south to Van. Traffic was light, and they merged into it, heading uphill. Soon the highway dumped into the Lows, and the easy flow degenerated into confusion. On all sides were ramshackle wooden buildings. Edict limited how close one could be to another, but wash lines ran between them and out buildings sprung up in the side streets. The police knocked them down, the people put them right back up, and every few years the whole place burned to the ground. Garin never understood why anyone would live here at all.

Heading upwards the buildings became stone. Now the city streets weren't flat, and the horses labored to pull the wagon. The sweetwater springs of the chutes ran throughout the city in carved aqueducts, which with the masonry gave the place some protection from flames. Only the merchants and tradesmen lived in stone. The road wound sideways up the draw with endless switchbacks.

“It's the longest league in the world,” Svir Garin told them, referring to a local saying. “There's a race here every year that goes down, up, and down again, and usually both down sections take less than the other.” They passed a unit of men running upwards in full armor but said nothing. The soldiers streamed sweat; their heads bent.

Eventually they made it into the Highs. Like below these houses were all stone, but overflow housing from Cutter spread down here as well. Tradesmen didn't live up here because of the difficulty in carting in their supplies, so it was all Swordsmen and support. The summer sun was brilliant in the clear sky, and a few low clouds shrouded the hillside below. Soon they came to the fortress itself.

The bald crown of Illiareth was gray rock, and the stonemasons had carved it away to form two vast steps. From the outside they were smooth cliffs thirty feet tall, rising and flattening to the top with all of the living and working offices of the fortress. There were no gates, but a dozen wooden scaffolds lead from one level to the next. In times of war they were torched. The guards wore red cloaks and recognized Garin.

“Who you got with you, Svir?” asked one, a lean faced man who greeted the senior non-com with a broad smile.

“Highlanders,” Garin told him, pointing his thumb at Varad. “Why aren't you wearing your helmet?"

"Special dispensation from Roban. We can remove our helmets on post on hot days."

"Rhys love us, the Red's going to pot," muttered Garin to himself loudly enough everyone could hear.

The Ve smirked. "Swordsmen! Welcome to Cutter. Who're you, Stones?"

"File Leader Pittin," said the lanky man and gave the names of Clael, Hoki, Saph, and Aryst. The File Leader on guard, Ve Oros, nodded and had one of his men jot the names down. Noting Varad wore a red cloak but wasn't introduced, Oros good-naturedly accosted him and asked for his name.

Varad stared at Ve Oros like the question was abstract mathematics. He said, "Al Varad."

“Oh!” exclaimed the Swordsman and glanced at the Svir, checking to see if he was being pranked. Garin grinned and nodded.

The leader of the guard detachment leaned forward, took Varad's hand, and shook it tightly. "Ve Oros, File Leader,” he introduced himself. "Welcome back. We always remember our own."

“I'm pleased to meet you,” Varad said, but no one heard him.

Immediately Ve Oros had bellowed, “Boys, come here!” Several dozen young men in red gathered in, temporarily ignoring the other people traveling up, but when Oros yelled about who had come most of those at the checkpoint paused to cluster around too. People started yelling back and forth, and a great many clustered around the wagon. Morraine and Aryce exchanged a small, amused smile, and moved aside to let the men alone.

Morraine found herself pushed over to where a couple score of women were observing the excitement with varied expression. A few looked angry that the checkpoint had come to a standstill, but most accepted it with patience. They were talking with each other in the light, banal conversation people have with strangers to pass the time. Almost all of the women were of marrying age, and a great number of children were with them. Clearly they were wives and families of the soldiers stationed at Cutter. Morraine watched them from her saddle.

These women who talked while they kept their kids from falling off the wooden ramps were taller than highland women, and their faces were not as tanned. None of them were in lean shape, and their hands were unmarked by sword callouses. Near her, four younger women were clustered together as if they knew each other. Two had baby bumps and one an infant. They all wore their brown hair long. None of them had a dark, rich black. It was their hair that struck Morraine, and she gazed at it absently until her boss coughed diplomatically. Startled out of her daze, she noticed that the crowd around the wagon was dispersing. They started moving upwards again.

They were riding behind the wagon, and Lady Aryce sent her a questioning look. Morraine thought before asking, “Have you ever felt both contempt and envy for the same person at the same time?”

“Those women?” Aryce asked.

“Their hair,” Morraine explained.

Aryce nodded. Both of them had their leather helms tucked into their belts and went bare-headed. Their dark hair was very short and matted down by sweat.

“Could you imagine trying to shove your head into a helmet with two feet of hair?” Aryce asked. “It would take you forever just to get it to lie flat and not get into your eyes."

“Oh, it would be impossible,” Morraine agreed. She was quiet as they ascended the next causeway and reach the flat top of the mountain. Back from the cliffs, out of bow shot, the stone buildings stood in gray solidity. 

“But?” Aryce asked.

“Nothing. It just isn't to be,” Morraine replied. Aryce showed no reaction but remembered the conversation later.

“Ladies, a word,” Garin called from the wagon, and they rode over. He also gathered the mailed men around so he would only explain this once. “Ve Pittin, you're in charge. The quartermaster is in that long building over there, with the tricolor flying out front. Get lodging for everybody, stable the wagon and team, and get people fed. Al Varad and I are going to go report to the garrison commander. Lady Aryce, I assume you'll want to come?”

“Please,” she agreed.

“Right. Make sure you get separate lodgings for her and Morraine,” he told Pittin, whom nodded.

“How long do you want to be here?” Pittin asked.

“At least two nights,” Garin replied, rubbing his chin. “We'll talk to the commander, and then the medics. Them with all their equipment might be able to get Varad walking again faster than Morraine with just her saddlebag.” He glanced at her when she said this to see how she took it. She did not seem perturbed. “Anything else?” he asked the group.

Aryst made a motion and when recognized asked, “Svir Garin, who do we talk to about getting paid here?”

The Svir sighed. “That is tomorrow, isn't it? I'll talk to the purser later tonight. Ve Pittin, stop by and make sure he's ready when I show up.” The senior added to the the File Leader.

The older man nodded. "I'll let him know you're coming."

The Senior Swordsman looked around, but no one else had anything.

“Right. Get to it,” he ordered and swept out of the wagon. Lady Aryce dismounted as well, and handed her reins to Morraine while Varad lowered himself to the ground. The Svir noticed.

“Damn, forgot. Ve Clael, saddle the Al's horse,” he instructed the junior Swordsman.

“Don't worry about it. I'll be all right,” Varad demurred.

“Would you stop making everything a dick-measuring contest?” Garin snapped in reply. Pittin burst out laughing, and Clael and Morraine joined in, though less explosively. Aryst looked on in nervous indecision, not sure if he should be laughing, while Saph and Hoki just smiled. Aryce's unflappable expression remained serene. Varad looked ill. “Swordsman, the horse,” Garin repeated to Clael.

The junior man brought the reins forward and handed them over with a hint of nervousness. Varad scowled at him, then glowered at the Svir as he mounted. Garin did not seem to care, much less attach any importance to the gesture.

“Good. Now get to work,” he ordered them all, and they dispersed. Garin, Varad, Aryce, and Morraine headed to the command offices while the rest headed towards the limply waving tricolor.

As they moved away, Garin asked Aryce, “Will you head back into the mountains?”

"No. We will speak to the Baron."

Garin had been watching the ground by his feet. The stones of Cutter were rutted and worn with age. His eyes lifted and slid sideways to Lady Aryce, but she didn't meet his gaze. Varad was watching several young men practice with weapons and didn't appear aware of the exchange. Garin waited for the thane to make eye contact. She did, like he wasn't demanding answers.

Svir Garin lowered his gaze and thought hard as they approached the command.

Several Swordsmen were training in a narrow lane. Two files with broad shields and shortswords faced each other between shoulder-high walls, and they surged and pressed, swords of those behind lifted overhead like scorpion stingers. Varad couldn't see their feet and guessed at stance by shoulder positioning. A row of men sat on hay bales without speaking, chewing grass. 

 

Svir Garin suddenly broke from Lady Aryce and rounded on Al Varad. Aryce paused, but he waved her to go on without them. She observed the gesture, and her face never changed as she obeyed. 

Garin addressed Varad. "Listen hard. You're about to walk in there and tell a man his son is dead. You're going to tell him his only message of hope is a lie. I don't care what kind of inane little problems you had with my Red Guard, nor how you got out of it after only two years. There is nothing in your worthless little life that can compare to the amount of pain you are about to inflict. Lay aside your pride and have some respect. You had a father once if you don't have one now. Think about what you're going to say, and who you're saying it to."

He turned and marched in while Varad stared at him bewildered. 

Cutter had Upper and Lower Headquarters, the Lower being in the city where the Lows met river Mern. Most of the logistic work of the three stationed legions happened there. Upper Headquarters in the fortress was for strategy. It was a busy place where the rank collected, and files of Swordsmen cooled their heels outside. A couple of young lords, Warmarks, were dealing with them. Sometime formulaically stopped the Svir's group from going in but obviously did so out of habit. The Svir halted just long enough for the sentry to see his rank and apologized before waving them through. Garin told him not to apologize for doing his job. 

Physically, the Upper was a stone warren where a fissure in Cutter's bedrock provided reinforced living space underground. It had been delved when Cutter was being built to ensure the fissures didn't provide secret ingress to the fortress but had become the most luxurious living space in the fortress. It had running water from deep springs, insulation from the cold, and since it had been built-in long after the rest of the fortress, ventilation was a natural part of the plan. Garin lead them through the nest of close passageways to the broader avenues underground, and soon came to the primary offices of the general staff. 

They met in a warm, colorful room with a regal air. Banners hung from the ceiling, both the war banners of old kings and flags of conquered cities. At the far end of the hall was a low dais of nine wide steps leading up to a high backed chair of oak. It was trimmed with gold and ivory, and above the seat was a wooden bas relief of a sunburst crown.

Wearing the sunburst crown in the seat was Baron Dylath-Leen. His birth name was forgotten when he ascended to Lordship by tradition, and he wore formal black robes with white trim. As Varad looked closer he could see that the Baron's robes were neither black nor white in truth, as the body of them was made of many dark colored threads, while the fringe was similarly multi colored with pale pastels.

He had a fierce beak of a nose and heavy, craggy brows beneath a high forehead. It was deeply lined. His black hair was winged in gray at the temples even though he was not old. The Baron wore no beard or mustache. His mouth was a thin, hard line with small lips. Garin lead to within ten steps of the dais, and Varad walked the rest of the way alone. At the first step he bowed. Citizens of Dylath-Leen genuflect.

“Sire,” Varad said.

“Swordmaster,” the Baron acknowledged him.

“I no longer carry that title,” Varad replied.

"Then where is my son?" the Baron asked. His words sounded calculated.

Varad saw the old baron and himself before him, but also saw ranks of senior officers standing by the walls. He saw messengers and attaches pause; he heard Warmarks hush stray conversation. 

Suddenly Varad was achingly tired, and he stared at the Baron. The Baron was more tired, older, and wearier. Varad felt trapped again, on the plains with the Consequent riders coming, and no escape. There was no terrain. 

"Your son is dead. The Kahserac killed him. The Kahserac is a man named Hegel. He has your son's body." He spoke in clipped, short sentences. There was no room for misunderstanding, but also nothing to cushion the sharp impact of his words on the Baron. The old man sighed and settled wearily into his throne. Svir Garin said nothing.

The Baron spoke quietly but not gently. "Tell me how this came to be."

"When you sent me south, you said he was going to Ungale Ngalnek. I went there immediately, and found Kosle's body laid on a stone. I took it and left, journeying overland to Hysterat. I went east instead of west to avoid pursuit, but by the time I came to Hysterat, someone was after me. I commissioned a coffin to hold is body and a carriage to carry it, and set out north." He spoke quickly, and the Baron stopped him. 

"You say you took his body?"

"Yes," Varad replied.

"How did he die?" the Baron asked. There was a deeply suppressed, dreadful need in his asking.

Varad thought hard, but when he spoke, he sounded like he was retreating from something. "In combat. He was wounded in front and behind. Likely he was surrounded and fought to the very end. There was a chest wound that I believe finished him. He met his end bravely, worthy of a prince." Varad spoke very carefully, picking his words.

The Baron stroked his face with his palm. The hall was very silent. Finally the old man continued, and his stoicism returned.

"Wasn't he guarded?"

"Sire?"

"His body, when you found it in Ngalnek. Wasn't he guarded?"

"He was." Varad sounded confused.

The two looked at each other across a barrier of miscommunication. Varad had only a faint Hobbol accent, but the Baron felt like they weren't speaking the same language. Much like the warrior before him, the Baron was suddenly intensely tired of playing word games, but a lifetime of politics inured him to aggravation. Nor did he reproach the other for the curt tone. The nobles and aids marked the manner in which Varad spoke, while the Baron seemed immune.

"So you took my son from under the eyes of the guards. How?"

"By the sword."

"Was he not in the Ungale?"

 

Varad still looked perplexed. "There was a city or so of them. Horsemen."

Without moving her head, Lady Aryce allowed her attention to move to her peripheral vision where Morraine's face was just in sight. Her bodyguard made an odd face, one eyebrow raised and the other eye squinting, her mouth tight-lipped and jaws spread like paused in the act of chewing. Aryce allowed herself amusement. 

"And you were pursued to Hysterat?"

"Yes, they chased me," replied Varad in irritated detail. "But only twenty, thirty or so could sneak around the city. I had Kosle encoffined, respectfully!" he added as an afterthought, making a point of the word. "And waylaid the southerners before leaving."

"Thirty of them?" asked the Baron.

"They were surprised."

Aryce nudged Morraine and when her bodyguard looked over, mouthed, 'Element of surprise?'

'Not thirty,' mouthed Morraine. She gave her boss bug-eyes. 

Aryce smiled before visibly schooling her face expressionless. Morraine blinked. She too turned her face expressionless as Varad exasperatedly summarized. 

"So a few dozen waited in the woods when I left here, and I killed them, but Hegel picked up my trail as I entered Asali Al. It's the shortest route to Dylath-Leen. I drove him off by the sword, but now I was marked. More and more often I was waylaid. I found Svir Garin and his detachment. I joined them, and we traveled north, across the bay. Then I was waylaid a final time, and the casket was thrown into the sea."

"What was different about that final ambush?" the Baron asked.

"I don't understand the question," Varad replied.

"You said escaped with Kosle from the heart of the Kahserac's city. You speak of driving off pursuit and breaking chase for hundreds of leagues while traveling alone. Yet with a detachment of Swordsmen, you are overcome while coming north by hidden ways. Why then, and not before?"

"In Ngalnek he was guarded by men. Through Asali Al and northwards, we were chased by men. I can handle men. On the bridge, we were attacked by monsters."

A murmur and a titter ran through the previously silent spectators of the Hall.

Varad's eyes snapped to the closest one and his hand fell to his blade, when the Baron asked, calmly, "Svir Garin?"

"Winged monsters, sire. Al Varad forgot to mention that he called them gaunts. They killed three of my brothers."

"Svir Garin, are you certain? Might a Senior Swordsman make mistakes about how his brothers die?" asked Baron Dylath-Leen.

"No, sire. That does not happen," reported Scir Garin. 

A sharp schism fell between the nobles of rank and those of power, the division between those who wore red and those who served in the military by blood. Svir Garin did not address it, but a tall man in a red cloak with a sunburst on his breast looked at him and at the other members of the Red. Distinctly, he nodded. The Redcloaks in the guard stepped towards the back of the room where the Senior Swordsman stood respectfully, and then all that wall was scarlet Swordsmen. By their motion, they created a block of nobles who remained, dressed in dun, black, or brown. These tightened as well, and looked scornfully at Varad. Three men in white cloaks and sharp spurs stepped apart from both groups. Lady Aryce and Morraine stood alone as well. 

"Thank you, sire. Please excuse me." Garin bowed. "Swordmaster, please resume your tale for the Baron. You were telling him how our brothers died defending his son's casket."

"A moment, Swordmaster. Svir, what were their names?" the Baron asked.

"Ve Omat, Ve Rurous, and Ve Orok, sire." Garin's voice was quiet, and it lost its professional, dispassionate edge.

"Where are they now?"

"At the chapterhouse, being interred in our mausoleum."

"Lord Roban, it is as if they served under my son, and I see no difference. Something should be done for them."

"Thank you, sire," said the man in the broad sunburst, Roban, highest of the Red and lord of Baroon and Hysterat. "I will make arrangements."

"A great effort," said the Baron, looking back to Varad. "You were saying you lost the casket?"

"Negative, sire. I said the casket was thrown into the sea."


	9. Chapter 9

When the sun rose of the old city of Asali Al, Pug arrived with a new wagon hitched to the old team and several heavily muscled men. Al Varad was careful not to be seated on the coffin when they arrived. His boots, jacket, and leggings were filthy with dirt. He had no cloak. The men used timbers and rope to hoist the casket into the wagon bed with practiced skill, and cleaned it off and tied it down. They said little. 

There was a crater, like a clearing, around the casket. Outside that crater ramshackle, barely upright buildings climbed each other, throwing stray corridors and rooms atop each other like paws in a pile of rats. Those near the casket had collapsed. Rubble lay everywhere. Pug had to pick his way in carefully, and the way out was slower, with the strong-arms walking beside the wagon and stabilizing it over scree-fields of building ruin that washed over the road. Al Varad walked behind, listening, looking, and watching. Everyone felt eyes on them. The city rustled. Once past the inner ring wall that confined the Narrows of old Asali Al, the strong-arms asked quickly for their pay.

“You owe them a mark each,” Pug informed Varad calmly. The driver had a round, red face and sure hands that handled the reigns deftly. He wore older, cheaper, but not dirtier clothes than Varad.

Varad looked at him, the laborers, and his face tightened. He paid the men. Once they were gone he said, “You do realize that's coming out of your pay, don't you?” to Pug.

“The hell it is,” Pug argued.

“Your carriage failed; you pay to have the job replaced,” Varad replied as calmly and swung himself back into the passenger seat.

“Breaking my carriage wasn't in the contract!” Pug yelled. “Nor was fighting off that lunatic or running through the Narrows!”

“A lone Swordsman hires you in the dead of night to carry a casket from Hysterat to Dylath-Leen in secrecy,” Varad replied acidly. “Exactly what did you think was going to happen?”

Pug opened his mouth to argue, but Varad overrode him with quiet words. “Pug, this is going to happen one of two ways. The first gets you paid very well. The second doesn't.” At that Pug paused, shutting his jaw, and Varad continued, “Now don't bullshit me. You're getting paid far too much for one contract for you to honestly be surprised by any of this. Thirty marks for a one way ticket to Dylath-Leen? That's what many people make in a year. You took the contract, and I'm going to pay you. I'm going to pay you extremely well. I'm going to pay you so well you're going to shut up and drive.”

“So it's going to be like that, is it?” Pug said hostilely.

“It doesn't have to be,” Varad assured him. “But stop pulling shit with me. You aren't clever, and I'm extremely angry after spending a night in the Narrows because you didn't keep up your end of the deal. Think about the money and drive, Pug.”

“You hired me because my carriage was the best,” Pug told him, clicked the reigns. The team started walking, and they headed north. “It is, and it was. But the best carriage in the world is going to lose a cargo if some bastard drops a building on it.”

“Then perhaps you should just think of me as having bought your wagon and hired you to drive it. If anything's left over at the end, that's a bonus, and I'll give it to you. But I'll set the damn thing on fire and throw it off a bridge if that's what it takes to get this casket to Dylath-Leen.”

“There aren't any bridges between Asali Al and Dylath-Leen,” Pug said sullenly.

“Then that's one thing you don't have to worry about,” Varad informed him.

“You're a bastard.”

“Why don't you take some of that money I already paid you and suck on it? It'll give you a reason to shut up.”

“Go suck yourself,” Pug retorted. They rode through the rest of the city in silence. 

North of Asali Al the road skirted the outskirts of the Sargal Forest. Mostly fir trees, the wood looked snow crusted year round from the white needles. Woodcutters made their living on its eaves, and the road served many of their settlements. Great wains of untrimmed timber moved south, always south. In Asali Al the wood was in fashion for construction, while northern Dylath-Leen still stayed to stone. On the west were wide open plains to the distant sea. Some ranchers kept goats, but the land was little used. Once they were far enough north that the expense of carting wood south was prohibitive, settlements became infrequent. A few solitary farms stood alone, but this was not prime land. They were small, and no one came out to see the travelers.

For two days they rode in silence. Pug was unwilling to break the silence he considered himself to have won, and Varad stared at the hills, tree-lines, drainage gullies, and tall grass. He sat so the Song of Winter had a clear draw path, and the only time he spoke with Pug was to order the reigns moved away from the scabbard. On this point Pug looked inclined to argue but didn't. Eventually they ran low on the bag of food Pug kept under the wagon seat, and they had to stop to buy more. This elicited some discussion, but they kept it professional. The road also grew rockier as they went north, and that required more discussion. In several places the road was washed out. Someone would had to get out to clear rocks or debris. Without discussing it, Varad took the job. Pug drove the wagon across wash and flood, and on two occasions up narrow creeks over Varad's objections. The creek walls leaned close over the wagon, and there seemed to be no path between them. Varad frowned unwillingly and made a vague face of surrender when Pug emerged onto the road.

“Is this illegal?” Pug asked in the afternoon of the third day from Asali Al. It was the tenth day of their contract together.

“No,” said Varad.

Pug did not look convinced. “Then who's your friend?”

“He wasn't my friend. But he's dead now, so it doesn't matter.”

“Grave robbing is a serious offense,” Pug mentioned.

“He hasn't been buried yet, so there's no grave involved. Anyway, I'm actually trying to get him to his funeral, so I'm grave-helping. Or maybe grave depositing,” Varad added with a slight, under the breath chuckle at his own cleverness.

“So you killed him?” Pug asked calmly, unmoved by the failure at wit.

“Eh?”

“Depositing someone in a grave is what people call 'killing,'” Pug clarified.

“Oh. No, I didn't kill him,” Varad said, then paused on the verge of saying more. “Why all these questions?”

“All things considered, I'm getting pretty curious who exactly is in there.” Pug's words were pointed, and he cocked his head backwards towards their cargo.

“Don't worry about it. Just drive the-” Varad paused. “Is this a carriage or a wagon?”

Pug smiled triumphantly. “This is a wagon,” he explained seriously.

“What's the difference?”

“Quality, mostly. This was the first thing I could find to buy, and it isn't made very well.”

“I thought wagon's carried cargo, and carriages carried people?”

“This is carrying us, and whomever is in the box,” Pug pointed out.

“He's dead, so he's cargo. And you're driving so you don't really count.”

“What about you?” Pug asked.

“I didn't hire you to carry me,” Varad explained. “I hired you to carry this, and I came along to see that it got done.” He drummed his knuckles on the casket disrespectfully, which Pug noted. “Also, I thought carriages were enclosed.”

“They usually are,” Pug agreed. “But they don't have to be.”

“Bah. They're all wagons,” Varad concluded in a pointlessly hostile tone just to irritate the driver.

Pug went back to ignoring him. .

They camped that night by a small church. The preacher provided them with food and drink, and offered them sleeping space in the church. Pug accepted, but Varad declined, mentioning he would like to remain close to the departed.

“He must have been very dear to you,” the priest told him. The he asked, “How are you bearing it now that he's gone?”

Varad did not respond. At first he tried to say something non-committal but got distracted thinking about the dead man. Instead he wound up stifling malicious laughter that left his chest hurting and throat raw. Fortunately the priest mistook the expression and said something solemn. To evade replying, Varad excused himself and ran outside to shove his fist in his mouth to quiet the sudden spasms of mirth that hit him. Finally he sat on the wagon and laughed till he cried.

That evening three small creatures came sniffling around the casket. As small as the twisted denizens of the Narrows, they moved on all four limbs fluidly, even in situations where walking upright was possible. Varad watched them from the darkness of the stable yard as they crept up and pawed at the casket with small, dirty hands. They had short, stubby fingers and stunted thumbs, resulting in an atavistic degeneration of the hand that reduced it towards being a paw. Coarse hair lay flat around their heads, and merged with their scruffy beards. They slunk around the wagon and casket, before retreating into the pines, away from the road. The Swordsman followed them into the Sargal.

It was very quiet in there. The pine-needle coated ground muffled noises, and the wee things moved stealthily to begin with. Yet they did not go far. Less than a hundred yards into the woods they rallied round another figure. This one was tall for a human, and his fingers showed distinct development. The little rat-things squeaked at him with chirps mixed with words. They told him that the coffin sat in a wagon, but they had no idea where the swordsman was. That was enough for Varad.

On the silent carpet of needles he managed to get within a dozen feet of them before they knew he was coming. Then he was in their midst. The rat-things shrieked natively, and words were unnatural to them. In death they only squeaked. Varad never figured out if the human could talk or not, for he died before he opened his mouth. The swordsman cleaned his blade and carried the bodies deeper into the woods, before returning to the churchyard.

“How'd you sleep?” Pug asked the next morning. It was forced conversation, and the driver was making an effort to be polite.

“Like a baby,” Varad replied just as politely. “You?”

“Good. The floor was cold, but the preacher had a pile of blankets for me. It was a little odd sleeping with all those candles lit,” Pug explained.

The preacher emerged then, and asked them if they were to be on their way. “As soon as the sun finishes cresting the horizon,” the driver answered.

“I have fresh bread inside. I'll bring you some, and a blessing to send you on your way.”

Pug accepted gratefully. Varad asked, “Do you know the prayers to the mountain gods?”

“The highland prayers? Aye. Same gods, just different names,” the priest agreed. “If you're from the mountains, I'll send you along with your own blessings, provided you don't mind getting mine too.”

“Too much prayer can't hurt,” Varad accepted, and thanked the old preacher. The easygoing priest soon brought them food and they talked about the road ahead while Pug harnessed the team together. They ate and were blessed in the names of Rhys, Morpheus, and Druz, then repeated in the names of Vyer, Ag Alchayre, and Duir. The travelers bowed and went on their way.

“I half expected you to start a fight with your mountain gods,” Pug said when they were several miles up the road.

“He didn't seem to mind,” Varad replied.

“No, but you know how touchy some priests get,” Pug pointed out.

“As he said, same gods, different names.” Varad repeated the priest's words with a similarly casual tone.

“Then why'd you care?”

“If I'm going to get the blessings of my gods, they may as well be in the names I've always called them. Besides, the blessing of Rhys is success, while the blessing of Vyer is victory. I'd rather think of kicking my enemies teeth in than just succeeding in my goals.”

“You're always just looking for a fight,” Pug judged. “You should relax, and just worry about succeeding at your job.”

“We got the prayers of Rhys too,” Varad mentioned.

“Which suit me better,” Pug declared. Again Varad got the impression the driver just wanted the last word, and so he gave it to him.

Later that day there was an earthquake. It did little more than spook the horses and shake loose needles off trees. No gaping chasms opened in the roads, and the extent of its effect on them was time lost calming the team. It did give them something to talk about. Varad learned Pug liked the sound of his own voice, and he liked to express hostile, definitive opinions about everything. Varad asked the driver a couple of leading questions to get him going and then sat and stared at the landscape, looking for ambush sites.

Pug had a lot to say. He explained how the earthquake was related to the inherent superiority of the lowland gods to the highland ones. Varad felt piques of irritation, but forced himself to let it pass. In reward Pug quickly lost interest in that and moved immediately into politics. His opinion was that all taxes he had to pay were bad, and that the taxes on everyone else should be used to improve roads he could use. It was hinted that roads should be specifically for his use, but he did not mention that explicitly. The Red Guard were overpaid. This lead immediately to how much Pug was being underpaid. The world was a cruel place.

He kept looking at Varad, expecting to be confronted on these views, but the redcloak was nodding agreeably and staring at a passing hillside that had overwatch on the road. A team of archers up there could have exterminated the team, and possibly the driver and passenger, very easily. They passed without incident, and Varad told Pug the latter was absolutely right about everything. He then asked how to properly care for a wagon team and tack. Pug warmed to the topic instantly, and Varad started worrying about a low gully that ran close to the west side of the road. As his driver expounded on shoeing frequency, the swordsman calculated how much warning he would have from a mounted charge. It was slim enough he suggested they change seats.

He did not tell Pug why, of course, nor did the other ask. But Pug was feeling warmer towards his employer and agreed. The driver went into detail about strap length adjustments, and now the swordsman paid enough attention to get questions for later. Besides, the going was very flat, and there were few good hiding spots.

Four days later they hit the bay.

The Bay of Dylath-Leen was twenty leagues wide and forty across from the southern lip where the road met it to Dylath-Leen itself. It was shaped like a bean. Lofty mountains ran past it to the north, sheltering it from the raging gales of winter. That limb of mountains was called the Eyre'mae for the way it cupped the bay. The bay itself was sunk into the ground between them and the wide plains that the duo had just crossed. Its mouth was partially corked by the Isle Vrarras, and the maps of the channels around the isle were for sale by the Baron. Wise captains bought the most recent ones, and it served as a tax on shipping. Cost conscious captains could copy them from their mates, but such maps were not always accurate or up-to-date. Torn every winter by storm and the raging currents, the channels moved. Bad maps were a dangerous method of saving money.

Beyond that was the sea. The Fhysay reached the furthest corners of Seminarh. The sea was never peaceful for always breakers beat against the rocks and rotting trees, but now it lurked instead of raged. Threats of great storms were distant as winter, and they rarely came early. Blue waters of the Bay beat against the shore hungrily. West of the road the lowlands fell away into the water, and the road turned east to skirt the bay.

“Look. The earthquake a few days ago was here,” Pug said, pointing down towards the shore. Seething breakers crashed among the long tops of the dune grasses. A few trees now jutted up from the crashing water, but already their leaves were wilting in the spring.

“The sea gods will eat the whole world in the end,” Varad told him, and for once Pug said nothing.

“How long now?” Varad asked.

Pug thought for a bit, pouting at the water in consideration. “Maybe fifty leagues. Five days.”

The swordsman waved him to resume, and they turned to follow the road around the coast. That evening creatures came from the woods. Like those from the churchyard, there were less than half a dozen of the small, sniffling beings who came stealing along the gullies towards the wagon. Varad ambushed them when the clouds parted before the moon, and silver light flooded the coast. One got away, and it fled directly to the tall, thin handler who waited within the trees.

Only the horses noted anything, but they seemed curiously unconcerned by the strange creatures. Pug slept through the night. By morning the bodies were gone, and a faint drizzle washed the blood from the ground. Pug either didn't notice or didn't react to that either, and the pink rivulets had been washed away before they left. While the driver continued his narration about all the ills of the world, the Al hunched under a horse blanket. 

"So four more days?" asked Varad towards noon.

"At least ten. Perhaps fifteen," said Pug. He pointed at the road, a deepening sea of muck over hard pack. "We can't run like we were."

Varad stared daggers at the mud and at Pug, his eyes slashing. Pug ignored him.

"If horse breaks leg, we stop," said Pug, accentuating every simple word.

"Drive," hissed Varad.


	10. Chapter 10

21

They went two leagues the next day. When asked, Pug extended his estimate of their arrival to twenty days. Varad couldn't tell if Pug was being serious or infuriating. That night little things found them through the rain, sniffing after their scent even as the gods pissed on them from heaven. That night the first of the hunters got away, and Varad ranged as far from the wagon as he dared, searching. He found nothing, just boot-prints that could have been a big man in armor in mud or puddles. Twenty days, said Pug. 

When the sun rose, Varad was sitting on the casket, waving his sword at the sky and talking to himself, but it had stopped raining. 

"What in cold hell is wrong with you?" asked Pug.

"Wet."

Pug looked up and down. 

"Cope."

The sun rose in her glory, and set to burning the highway dry. It was hot early and muggy as a swamp. As they were moving onto the road, six riders charged past. They paid the wagoneers little attention. Five of the six wore brilliant scarlet cloaks, and all carried long spears with heavy swords at their sides. The other wore brown and tan cotton, but his cloak was emblazoned with the jade emblem of the Baron. A scroll tube caked with dried mud was bound tightly to his saddle. Two of the redcloaks rode ahead of the messenger, two on either side, and one behind, far enough back that clods were not thrown into his face. They passed at a dead run, and Varad stopped what he was doing to stare after them.

“I wonder where they're going,” Pug asked rhetorically. It sounded rhetorical at any rate, and he asked it without sending Varad so much as a look.

“The Baron's Keep at Dylath-Leen,” Varad answered anyway, guessing that was what Pug really wanted. “The redcloaks are his guards, and the other is a messenger.”

“How do you know?”

“Two years, Pug. Two years,” Varad answered bitterly.

“Two years isn't that long,” Pug said.

“It can be a very long time,” Varad answered, and his tone was hard and acid. “It's plenty to know that when someone has a message for Dylath-Leen and they think it important, the Red Guard will assign a detachment to see it gets to its objective.” Pug noted a subdued anger that he hadn't seen before. It was not the burning rage when they had lost the coffin in the Narrows, but a deep, poisonous anger that had been buried and left to fester. Pug licked his lips and changed the subject.

“What message do you think they're carrying?”

“I could only guess,” Varad replied and went back to strapping in the horses.

“Then what would you guess?”

“I wouldn't.”

They departed in silence, but once on the road Varad urged them to make more speed then they had before. He stared at the road, and the clear tracks on the muddy road. Pug got the team cantering and then trotting. His employer said nothing else while watching the road ahead with clear discontent. He wanted speed, but there was no way a laden wagon could match six men, traveling light and riding fast.

Several leagues later the sun had had burned the only set of hoofprints into fossils, and around midday they came to an intersection. A decaying road broke off from the highway west, going down towards the bay. They were several leagues east of it, and the shore was out of sight. The deep navy of the bay lay between the low hills and horizon. Varad made Pug stop and stared down the road towards the sea where the six had gone.

“Unless you want to follow them, there's no reason to stop,” Pug told him.

“You're right,” Varad agreed. “Let's go.”

Pug lifted the reins, but Varad seized his arm. “No. That way, towards the sea.”

“You want to go after them?”

“We may shave some time from our route yet, and go in greater secrecy and security besides. How many leagues to Dylath-Leen?”

“Forty-ish?” Pug hazarded a guess. “Maybe four days, no more than a month.”

“On this road,” Varad repeated. He hissed and sucked his teeth. “After them, with all due haste.” The swordsman hunched forward on the seat, and lost himself in thought as the wagon turned. On of his hands played with the silk cording on the Song of Winter's handle.

Pug eyed Varad, the sword, and the path the six armed men had taken. Pug if Varad was wondering how much faster they could go with six extra horses. 

No, he thought. Surely not. 

Pug turned the team and put them to a trot towards the bay. 

The road ended in a rocky, dirty beach and ruined houses crouched in a cluster. They looked like they only remained upright because they were waiting to die. The sun had finally come out, but the light did little to relieve the gloom. It only revealed how decaying this spot was.

“It's an old fishing village,” Pug said. “The green silkies used to spawn off the shore, and fishing was as easy as plucking them out of the water. Then the schools left, and now no one lives down here. This road doesn't run along the coast at all.”

“You know that how?” Varad asked, searching the ground for signs of the horses.

“You hired me because I know the roads. I know the roads,” Pug replied with injured professional pride.

“Keep going,” Varad ordered. Pug had slowed to a walk, and that pace suited the ruined path. Now the swordsman rose and stood on the running boards, bending his legs to let them absorb the bumps in the path. Soon they were in the midst of the crumbling village.

All five of the Red Guard appeared at once. They stepped from behind cover in perfect unison, short gladiuses drawn. Their cowls were thrown back but the winds from the sea whipped their capes like flames. Gold threads in the crimson fabric caught the fading sunlight until they all seemed to radiate aura's of vicious power. Pug stopped the team immediately and waited for the hit. 

Varad had an incongruous expression of deep pride. 

“Good evening, Swordsmen.” Varad put weight to the word and jumped to the ground. Pug had never heard the client describe himself so, but knew the Red Guard had taken the word for a personal title. It meant something special when referring to a red-cloaked man.

“Why have you pursued us?” asked one cagily.

“What is your name?” Varad asked. “When did you last go through the chapterhouse?”

The redcloak looked at Varad oddly and made no response. The lone swordsman turned from one to another, trying to make eye contact and searching for a hint of recognition. At first there was none, but one of the younger men met his gaze levelly instead of watching his body for hints of purpose.

“Are you trying to match wills with me?” Varad asked.

The young man cocked his head, confused but said nothing. Varad continued, “If you find it necessary to draw your blade, would it not be better to ignore the vain challenge of the ego and concern yourself with making ready in case I attack. Watch my torso, not my eyes.”

“There are five of us, and one of you,” the youth replied. “Your ally has no weapon.” His words and gaze were both confident. Something was bothering him: not doubt, but a memory.

“Then you have been entirely too long from training.”

“Al Varad!” gasped another. “The devil himself!”

The devil twisted to look at that one and smile. “Good evening, Swordsman,” he repeated.

None of them dropped their weapons. In fact they tightened their grips and several stopped standing still, now rocking gently while keeping their weights precisely balanced. Varad kept his hands clear of the Song of Winter.

“You put aside the scarlet,” one observed, with neither hostility or welcome.

“My two years ended,” Varad replied. “I was attacked, and I thought they were tracking me by the cloak.”

“You were what!?” snapped Pug. No one answered him.

Instead, the other speaker nodded slowly. “This morning we were attacked as well.”

“Like the ratlings of the Old City in Asali Al?” Varad asked. In order to demonstrate he was not fishing for information, he added specifics. "Less than a hand's worth and a handler who hid in the trees?"

“It is as you said,” the speaker agreed. He was slightly beyond Varad's age and held his weapon with deep familiarity. He had sunbursts at his collar. The others all had a single chevrons. “The creatures came during the night.”

“How did that work out?” Varad asked with exaggerated nonchalance.

One of them opened his mouth, shut it, and looked at the speaker with the sunbursts.

Three of the four with chevrons were young men, younger than Varad. They held their swords loosely. The other was the oldest of the group, Pug included, and tall and wiry thin. His eyes were harder; and in recognizing Varad, he trusted him least. While the younger three looked to the man with sunbursts for a response, the tall old man watched Varad, Pug, the horses, and looked like he wasn't too sure of the sea either. 

The man with sunbursts thought, judged, and decided. 

“Ve Orok got bitten on the foot,” he said. “But he was wearing his boots, so the only harm is to his free time. Their mouths are vile, and the spit stained his leather.” His sword point dropped and pointed to the ground.

The others let their swords dip as well, and Varad glanced around. One of the younger men did indeed have a weird mark on his boot and several long scratches that lead towards the toe.

“That's going to take a while to polish out,” Varad told him, trying to be lighthearted.

The younger man grunted.

“Orok?” Varad repeated the name, triggering a slight memory. “Just recently in?”

“Yes,” Orok replied. He recognized Varad; it was plain in his voice. “But only my brothers in red may call me that.”

“I remember. You were in my second morning class before I left with the Prince. You learned fast. Committed your weight too early.” He paused. "When you're out of breath you hiss through your teeth."

“That's no business of his!” Orok snapped, jutting his chin at Pug.

Varad shrugged, and splayed his hands wide. “Very well. Put your blades up. Let's talk.”

Orok scowled and flicked his glance at the sunbursts. The other said, “You mean no harm to the Baron's messenger, not any action against his rule?” It was a formal question that echoed oaths they had all taken. There was something of a rite to the way it was asked.

“None,” Varad swore solemnly.

The asker slid his sword back into its sheath, and the others followed suit. “Very well. I am Svir Garin and left the chapterhouse a very long time ago. The two years you were there I was at the shoulder of Mount Illiareth in Cutter. It is no surprise we've never met. Al Varad you were, but you've left the Guard and wear the red no more. Why did you follow us?”

“I must get to the Baron soon. I must complete my final obligation before leaving his service,” Varad explained.

“I heard something of your final obligation,” Garin replied. He was not sure whether or not Varad still had claim on rank and thus omitted his name.

Instead of replying, Varad cocked his head sideways towards the wagon. Garin followed the gesture and found himself staring at the huge black coffin. Realization hit him like lightning.

“Is that-” Garin asked. 

“Yes.”

“You are in a world of shit,” the old man pronounced.

“It gets better,” Varad agreed. “Unless I miss my guess your Baron's messenger carries word from Ungale Nganek. That message is is a lie.”

There was a hiss, very faint, from behind one of the ramshackle buildings. Listening for it Varad could also hear the occasional restless hoof. They must have left their steeds with the messenger.

“We should talk then,” replied the Svir and stood upright releasing the hilt of his weapon. The others followed suit. “This is Ve Pittin, Ve Orok, Ve Rurous, and Ve Omat. The messenger is Dyroom.”

Orok and Rurous went to get the messenger, while Omat escorted Pug to where the horses were tethered. They had found some grazing land. Garin walked with Varad down towards the bay, bringing with them the only man older than himself. This was Pittin, and he was gnarled with skin like leather. His face looked craggy. In spite of this his hair was dark, and his step firm. He was younger then he looked.

“How long have you been in?” Varad asked Ve Pittin as they moved away to have a private conversation.

“Seventeen years,” he replied. “Since the last Baron held the throne.”

Varad nodded. Garin explained he had only been in for twelve years, but had been luckier in his assignments. “Cutter is a common observation post for the high command, and even the Baron has stayed there several times, reviewing the southern defenses. At one point I impressed him, and was tasked with this assignment because of it. I'm hoping to get Pittin the promotion he's long deserved on this ride.”

Pittin, he explained, had been assigned to Leptras, in the highlands in the east. It was an arid plateau where no one came and few things lived. It had no seasons, being hot and dry year round. “It's a hard draw for assignments,” Pittin admitted. “No one goes there, and we who are assigned to watch the rocks get forgotten. There is little to do, and years to do it.”

“How long were you there?”

“Ten years. After that I got send to Muyr, which is nice. It's in the basket of the mountains, but it's very quiet. It's hard to distinguish yourself and harder still to make rank.”

“Practice much?” Varad asked, nodding towards his scabbard.

“I do little else,” he replied.

“When we get to Dylath-Leen, I'd like to see your skill.”

“That would please me,” he said. “I've heard stories of you from the chapterhouse. It's hard to gain that reputation in so short a time.”

“Two years,” Varad replied, but his words sounded hollow.

“And that's such a long time,” Garin agreed.

Varad changed the subject. 

“I'm sure you see why I have to get to the Baron,” he said. “I presume by your messenger's hiss that my guess about the message was correct?”

“That's not something I discuss,” Garin replied.

“Wise of you. I left the Ungale as a messenger was departing, but the messenger would have had to go west to Tyr, then north to Van, before coming here. I passed them both. 

"Suppose that message is from Ungale Ngalnek, and suppose it tells the Baron that Prince Kosle has been captured. The obvious ransom is the Baron lifting his prohibition on open southern metal trading. The horned lords are desperate for northern steel, and they can force the Baron to give it to them if they say they have his son.” He paused and waited for a response.

The two Swordsmen were looking at him stone-faced. “That's not the sort of thing we're inclined to discuss,” Garin said again. Varad waited, but they made no move to walk away.

“But you'll listen?” he asked.

“You can say whatever you want.”

“Kosle's in the box,” Varad said. “My final obligation is to bring him home.”

“The Baron is going to be most upset with you when he finds out you let his son die,” Garin observed.

“How much did you hear about my final mission?” Varad asked.

“Quite a bit. Nearly all the officers do a few years at Cutter, and command stays there. It's central to the southern defense.” This was no secret, though rarely spoken of. As many generals at any post as there were at Cutter made rumors in the right circles, but the Red Guard was notoriously tight lipped about such things. That was only to outsiders, though. Swordsmen talked to Swordsmen.

“Then you might know that in the seventh month of the second year of my time, Prince Kosle ran into some trouble,” Varad said it like it was question, but he would have been shocked if Garin did not know all this already.

“I also heard that by then you'd challenged him five times, and spend two nights in jail for beating him during practice.”

“That happened,” Varad agreed.

“The prince?” Pittin asked, startled.

“We didn't get along,” Varad explained.

“He's the prince!” Pittin exclaimed. “Especially in Dylath-Leen, where his father was the Baron. You're just dumb.”

“We really didn't get along,” Varad repeated vehemently. “Technically, anything that happens during practice was an accident, so his dad shouldn't be able to hold it against me.”

“He's the Baron, you idiot,” Pittin pointed out as Garin asked, “What exactly did you do to his son?”

“We got into an argument about the importance of practice. Kosle said once you knew something, you didn't need to practice it any more. I disagreed. That was the last time I challenged him, and this time his daddy wasn't around to interfere so we took it to the practice ring with wooden blades. I broke both his legs.”

Pittin looked startled, Garin less so. 

“How did you survive that?” Pittin asked, aghast.

“The crux of the matter was the forward falling strike. Kosle said he had mastered it, and thus it would be useless against him. I challenged him, and swore only to use the forward falling strike. I did. I used it twice.”

“He survived because he was still wearing the red then,” Garin said, overriding Varad's words to explain things quickly. “The Baron couldn't get him for crimes committed during Red Guard practice until he left the Red Guard. After Kosle could walk again, he went south to do some spying. The prince intended to reclaim his glory, and went south.”

“A few months later the Baron gets a messenger from the Kahserac. They said they captured the Prince,” Varad interjected. He glanced around to be sure they still had their element of privacy, and then continued. Garin was nodding like he knew all this already. “The Baron sent word back that he wanted proof his son was alive, the typical thing, and then appeals to the Red Guard for their best man to go get him. And guess who the Baron deems the best man in the Guard?” Varad turned and stared at Pittin.

“Oh, fuck you, short timer,” Pittin told him.

“So I went south,” Varad added. Pittin was looking at him with disdain, but Garin did not react. “What no one knows yet is that after I went down south, I found out that they didn't have the prince. They had his body. Humiliated once, the Prince had pulled one of those 'death before dishonor' things and refused to be captured. He'd died fighting.”

Garin blinked. “Oh.”

“He died honorably,” Varad admitted and that was just as difficult as Garin's had been earlier. “Raging idiot with a sword, but not a coward.”

“Don't speak ill of the dead,” Garin corrected him.

A retort snapped to Varad's lips, but he bit it back. “Anyway, I got my hands on the body, got out, and managed to get to to the Hysterai. He was getting a little ripe by that point, so I had the casket made, and now I'm taking him back.”

“So that's why you said the message is a lie,” Pittin muttered, pieces falling into place.

“Exactly. The Kahserac can't have Kosle as a hostage, because the prince is dead in a box on the back of my wagon,” Varad explained. “The Kahserac is doing everything they can to stop me, but they haven't yet." Varad paused and looked to the sky. He thought of something he didn't say. 

"I just need to get to Dylath-Leen. They can remove the Prince and confirm his identity, the Prince's body will cause the Kahserac's plan to fail," he looked at Garin as he said his like the statement was an offer. "And my short time will be acquitted with honor. 

“But just now,” he said with a sudden change in tone. “You passed me, and I noticed you were riding hard for the north. We all know the Red Guard escorts messengers only when speed and certainty is an issue, so I expected you to right straight through. But you didn't. You came here. So I followed you. If you've got a ship or something, I can skip whatever they've got waiting for me, complete my mission-”

“-and get thrown in jail for the rest of your life,” Pittin interjected.

Varad stopped, open-mouthed. It took him several seconds for his brain to get back on track. “Well, hopefully not. At least the Baron will know his son is dead and not captured, and he'll have the body. That should count for something.”

“You know what I don't believe here?” Pittin said suddenly. “That you're the best. Why would the Baron entrust his son and heir to you? Especially when your enlistment is almost done.”

Varad stared at the water, watching the breakers crash against the shore. “The Baron's very shrewd,” he admitted at length. “He played me. I'm bringing Kosle's corpse back because it is difficult, and Kosle wouldn't. Duty and obligation play a role, but Kosle wouldn't have raised a hand for me. He would have thought it beneath him. This is how I show the Baron I'm better than his son.”

“You'll never win greater esteem in a man then his first born son,” Garin pointed out.

“Then maybe this is how I show the world. You met Kosle? You knew his manners?” There was an edge of acid in Varad's voice that he was trying to keep submerged. It rose with a sick feeling in his stomach. Forcing himself to be calm, he pushed the cold anger down back into the well of hostility.

The two men nodded noncommittally. Varad guessed that Garin would have met the prince at Cutter, while Pittin was an unknown. “Make up your own mind then. I have nothing to say about the man, but you can see for yourself how I act. Besides, any way this sorts out the Baron will want to speak with me, and he will want the coffin delivered to him. Since you go in that direction anyway, let me join you.”

Garin thought hard. He did not trust this Swordmaster who had put aside the red, and Pittin obviously thought he was lying. Regardless, though, the best solution was to bring Varad and the casket back with them. He would let the Baron and the Red Guard high command settle the matter.

“You can come with us,” the Svir decided. “Be ready to leave soon.”

“You have a ship coming?”

“You'll see.”


	11. Chapter 11

22

No one spoke to Pug. He tried to talk to Svir Garin and explained to Ve Pittin everything that was wrong with the world, but they looked between him and Varad and spoke little. Garin kept getting called away to do things, and Pittin carried a cold, hostile expression. Eventually Pug gave up, and tried to draw out Varad. 

He was a little taller then Varad and heavier. He carried most of his weight in his gut. His hair had receded to a ring from temple to temple. For a while he had tried to comb it so it hid his baldness but finally gave up. Pug's nose was a round, giant thing, but at least he did not snore. He wore cotton clothing of feeble quality that looked odd on the immaculately maintained carriage. Nothing fit very well. He said it was because tailors could not fit a fat man, but mostly it was because he refused to spend the money.

The carriage was different. Most of it was fine beech, stained dark, and trimmed with black leather. Each of the wheels was made of oak and banded with steel. Six immaculately groomed northern purebreds made the team, trotting effortlessly in two rows of three. Normally Pug ran a team of four, but the massive mahogany casket in the carriage bed required more. The four would have done it, but not at the speeds Varad had insisted on when he had hired him. The horses grazed in their harnesses.

"You owe me for the rear gate and having the bed fixed," Pug said suddenly as he was circled the carriage. Cut marks scored the beech, exposing paler wood underneath the luxurious stain. 

"Fine. We'll add it up later." Varad acknowledged.

"Unless you tell me at least something of this operation, I would prefer to keep it current," Pug replied.

"What? Don't you trust the integrity of the Red Guard?" Varad asked sourly. No one else was close.

"You aren't wearing a red cloak," Pug pointed out.

Varad shrugged. "They know me."

Tempted to argue, Pug stopped himself. "Well, they should know a swordsman. They are the best swordsmen."

"Pug, I'm much better than that," Varad corrected him firmly. 

"Oh, right," Pug replied in a condescending tone. He finished his lap of the carriage. He had drawn up between broken buildings, away from the others, and the buildings loomed close on either side. He had to pick his way between the horses to get in front of them. That took some doing for the fat man.

Varad bristled. "It's what the Al means," he said. "It's my title."

"What are you talking about?"

"My name is Varad, but my full title is Al Varad," he explained. A sudden noise made his head flick upwards, and he adjusted his weight minisculely on the seat, looking around rapidly. His head made the quick movements of a bird. 

"What is it?" Pug gasped.

For a moment the other didn't reply. He stopped looking around, and closed his eyes, holding his head very still. After a long pause, he opened his eyes and relaxed. "Nothing. Bird."

Pug didn't react immediately. He stood very still, trying to be ready, but nothing happened. Finally he sighed and went back to his animals. "What were you saying?"

"'Al. It means master swordsman or swordmaster. You're familiar with the fact that all redcloaks are called Swordsmen?"

"Except the officers, right?"

"Yes," Varad agreed. "They're just useless. But the rest of us are all Swordsmen."

Pug nodded. That was common knowledge. "I've worked for you redcloaks before. I've heard that."

"Well, I'm not a Swordsman but I'm not an officer. I'm a better Swordsman: a Swordmaster."

Pug chewed on one his fat lips.

"Ask someone," ordered Varad blankly, and waved the driver off. He turned around and sat facing the bay, his arms crossed and shoulders hunched. 

"Why are you so good?" demanded Pug.

"Practice. Just practice," snapped Varad, and stared at the sea. After a few breathes he added, unwillingly, "And better teachers. Mostly better teachers. That's what a Swordmaster is. I had the best teachers; I went to Dylath-Leen to teach the Swordsmen. It's a ritual. There's only one of us at a time. And I'm done."

Come nightfall the Swordsmen put away their dice. 

When the sun set the Swordsmen and Varad broke apart the old ruins for the lumber. No one asked Varad or Pug to help, but once Varad saw them work, he joined. They spoke in short, terse directions. Pug prepared the carriage. The rooves and walls were wet, but the floors and interior walls burned well.   
They piled timber onto the blaze until it was taller than any of the men, and the crackle was growing towards a seething roar. It was louder than the relentless beat of the waves against the shore. Orok and Rurous tore down a shed and tossed its bones in. Beams vanished into the orange and crimson glow. Still they stoked the fire.

As the twilight darkened a fog began to roll in. The Redguards weren't bothering to save any wood, tossing everything immediately onto the fire, but some of the larger logs would burn for hours. They were just above the high tide line, blackening the sand, while the sea grew misty. Soon Varad couldn't see the stars, for the fog overhead threw the ruddy glow back down. 

They burned every house in a hundred yards until Garin told the Swordsmen to wait. He stared to the north. 

"Don't go looking for more wood. It's too far," Svir Garin decided.

His detachment nodded. Varad smiled evilly, and looked at Pug and the wagon. The driver waved a knife at him. 

The fog was thicker than pinetrees in the Sargal Forest when the lights appeared. Varad closed one eye and squinted the other. They grew brighter out to sea in the gloom. At first it looked like a ship, coming towards the shore with beacons lit on the bow. He nodded and asked about the ship, but Svir Garin smirked at him.

"Patience." The Senior Swordsman came very close to gloating. 

In another moment the prick of light through the wall of fog split, and there were two lines of small flames, lighting one after another. Additional flames were catching on the near side of the rows. They looked like nothing so much as street lights, being lit by lampsmen on either side of a long avenue. Then they were close, and out of the gloom there were black shadow between them. The Red Guards mounted, and Varad swung up onto the driver's bench with Pug. The team began to walk towards the sea.

Out of the gloom the shadow resolved itself into a stone bridge, with deep set pillars that the hostile waves shattered against. The near end ran directly into the steep line of the beach, and two guardrails of aged stone stood on either side. They terminated in tall poles; at the top of each was an oil lamp. The lights were further such lamps, marching off along the bridge as it vanished out to sea in the gloom. The party rode down the shore onto the stone bridge, and the transition from of riding on sand to flagstones was marked by ringing hoofbeats. The sound was curiously mundane.

“Come,” urged Garin. “This will take us to Six King Point, less than a mile from Dylath-Leen, where the Baron's lighthouse marks the way for ships at sea.”

Pug looked at his employer. “But there was no bridge before. Did it rise from the sea?”

When he did not get a reply Pug urged his team along behind the riders, and in a clatter of horseshoes on flagstones, drove out to sea. The beacon dwindled behind them, and soon they were alone in the murk on a path lit by streetlights.

The horsemen set a fast pace. Dylath-Leen was close by sea. The shore went wide behind them, taking a long arc north around Green Silk Bay, named for the fish that used to spawn there, but the bean shape of the bay was narrow at the middle. Garin constantly encouraged Pug to hasten, saying the trip had to be complete before sunrise. The horses ate distance on the smooth paving stones, and Pug gloated by pushing the team until it was the stray riders who had to press to keep up. He preened so Garin could see.

"Slow a bit," admitted Garin. "Some of us work a living on our feet, and we cannot sit as fast as you."

Pug scoffed. "Don't question my team. I'll leave you all behind."

"You aren't funny, master Pug," said Garin as his face turned to flint. "I am the Red Guard. I don't leave comrades."

"And that's special," Pug replied. "I'm Pug, and I drive. We'll cross the bay by morning."

Pug did not mark it, but Garin's eyes flashed. Instead of replying he set the redcloaks to riding before and behind the wagon with Dyroom the messenger protected in their midst. 

 

Varad took to his feet after an hour. Even on the smooth crown of the bridge, the jostling was beating his legs and back apart, so he rose, hands on one of the carriage's unlit lantern post for balance. Before him was horse-ass. Magnificent, thundering, horse-ass, but he confirmed that yes, horse-ass remained horse-ass, and he had observed all the running horse-ass his last weeks of staring at horse-ass still required. He looked back. The casket was tied down with flat leather straps, intricately worked together into a net by Pug. The immense Hysterai coffin budged only barely even with the jostling of the run. Behind the wagon Svir Garin rode with Dyroom. Varad and the Svir briefly made eye contact.

"...Ve Pittin," ordered Garin. "I'm going to press up.."

The rest was lost in the rattle of hooves and carriage wheels, but Varad nodded and pointed behind them all to Ve Pittin, who was riding tail-guard. Garin nodded. The Svir tapped Dyroom, and the two circled around the wagon to head towards the others. Pittin watched them, looking up curiously.

Varad waved and made a bowl of his open hand. He laid it atop his other, both palms up, and offered it to Pittin with a questioning gesture. The old man shook his head. 

Varad nodded and glanced over his shoulder in the direction they were going. Garin was watching him, critically. Varad made the bowl gesture again, but this time lifted his bottom hand, flipped it, and covered the top. Garin nodded. He tried to look past the wagon to check on Ve Pittin with his own eyes, but the angles were wrong. Unwillingly, the Svir nodded to Varad again and seemed to accept the report. Varad's seat was on the right of Pug, who sat towards the center, and the man in dun clothes turned his back to the driver, watching the fog, the rearguard, and ignoring the occasional look of the Senior Swordsman. 

Varad got the distinct impression Svir Garin didn't trust him to watch Ve Pittin without supervision. Varad grumbled something about goats and bulls. Garin left Dyroom right in front of the wagon and pressed ahead to have a short, yelled conversation with Omat, Rurous, and Orok. They laughed about something. 

"Goat lickers," muttered Varad and clenched his fist on the Song of Winter's handle. He looked back.

Pittin bent low on the horse. His legs ached, and after an hour of relentless beating, the joy of riding was long gone. His thighs burned, and when waves beat the bridge to fling salt spray at the travellers, he felt every drop roll down his hips. Pittin was becoming aware of the exact number of hairs on his legs where they touched the saddle. He tried to stand to avoid the pounding but was exhausted. If he sat up all the way, he might be able to see the Svir and others. He looked down at the horse and the road before him, up to the casket that Varad claimed carried the prince. It was relentlessly unchanged. Varad perched on the back of the wagon with a vaguely constipated expression, looking between the others in front and back to the rear.

"Helpful as a gelding's poleax," said Pittin to his horse, and Varad charged him.

Varad took two steps on the casket, leaped, landed dead on Pittin's head, and threw himself airborne and back as he kicked the rider face-down into horse's mane. 

Pittin ate hair, and then the horse crumbled, smashing its long-face into flagstones. The beast tumbled. Pittin spun aside, twisting across the ground as blood splatter mixed with saltwater across the bridges. Rocks bounced his head. Ve Pittin kept rolling. He smashed off rocks and bounced between the railing piles, and kept rolling. He kept skidding. He kept rolling. Suddenly furious, Pittin started screaming at the bridge to stop this worthless moving, and he bounced off the far rail again. A carriage wheel tumbled towards his head, and he flopped under it. The wheel broke as it rolled before bouncing off the rail and into the fog of nothing. 

Infuriated, he finally stopped, and Ve Rurous hit the ground beside him with his face ripped off.

"Ve!" screamed Pittin, and he tried to draw. His legs didn't work.

Svir Garin screamed. Pittins horse rolled by in parts, improperly butched so the spine and ribs stuck out at false angles; the tough strings of the horse's innards binding the pieces together. Black things grabbed it, things with wings and long fingers, razor sharp tails with barbs and hooks. 

"Ve!" screamed Pittin, crawling towards Rurous.

Something pounded the ground, and the carriage tumbled past with its wheels ripped off, black steel axle mountings grinding on the wet stone. It rode a carpet of sparks. Pug shrieked inarticulately, and his horses screamed the terrible mix of inhuman and human that is a horse shrieking in fear.

When Pittin had been a boy, when he'd first travelled to Dylath-Leen to lie about his age and join the Red Guard, he had stowed away on a fishing boat. He'd been found almost immediately, but the gruff captain had smacked him about the head, muttered about stupid youth, and personally escorted him to the Red Chapterhouse in the Baron's City. On the way Pittin had worked the nets. Varad fell out of the flocking gaunts with a full net of body-parts, a catch of legs, heads, and wings. The dump splashed onto stone. Varad bowled out sideways in a gory mess, ran up the carriage crashing towards him, and leaped skyward again, plunging up into the mess of black guants like a diver into a fish school. The air bled behind him. 

To his shock, Pittin realized his legs worked again. His sword was in his hand. Pittin screamed for the Svir and saw Garin fighting desperately for Orok's body. The young Swordsman had been skewered until his guts hung from his clothing, and the thin guants clawed at him, gnashing their teeth and trying to fly away. Garin had Orok by the legs, holding the fine boots. 

"My brother!" Pittin staggered forward and jumped on wobbly legs, stabbing upwards with the short, heavy gladius. He caught something in the thing, grabbed it by the ankle, and yanked down, stabbing again and again. It shrieked at him until he impaled it through the black jaws. Then the rest dropped Orok and turned on him, and the old Swordsman and the Svir fought desperately, tails like spears flashing at them. They slew until the ground splashed.

"Svir!" yelled Omat behind them. He was standing on top of Dyroom, who was shrieking for no reason, and the air was a black worm's nest of swinging tails and wings. Garin cut his way out and charged Omat. He was two steps away when the boy died. Something ripped his head off with fingers like steel wire, and Garin had to jump over his comrade's body to kill the gaunts that rushed Dyroom. 

Varad fell out of the air over Garin and killed everything. The horror of his fall was followed by a silence so shocking Garin heard bells ringing in his ears, and the soft growl of a low wave, splashing without the force to climb the bridge.

"Svir, to the casket," snapped Varad, and turned and ran. 

Pug had ridden the crashing carriage like a maniac, working the brakes to keep his baby from breaking through the rails and plunging into the sea. His team bucked like mad, and he cut them loose that they wouldn't kill themselves in their panic. The carriage finally stopped, but somehow the reigns caught Pug by the arm, yanking him out of his seat. The team dragged him down the bridge. 

In that moment, a nightfall of guants swung down and snatched the casket from the carriage. It refused their fingers, but they caught the straps and spread, many of them lifting the huge mahogany coffin as one. The casket lurched and rose. 

Just past the railing a sharp drop in wind sucked them down, and Varad caught them in midair. He bowled through the nightfall, slaughtering everything until the coffin swung and fell. It hit the black water like a stone. 

The fog blocked the starlight, and the bridge blocked the lanterns. The Green Silk Bay was dark and still. The coffin sank towards the abyss, and Varad had a tight grip on the casket straps, sank with it.

It hit sand with an oddly mundane thud, soft underwater, and a poof of bay silt.

Nearly a minute later Varad breached the surface, gasping, with his sword in one hand and an line of straps, tied one to another down to the casket on the bay floor, in the other. The bridge loomed in the distance.

"Hey, Red Guard! Anyone left alive?" he called.

"Al Varad!" screamed Svir Garin.

"Alive and wet! The others?"

An instant passed. "Ve Pittin and the messenger Dyroom are with me. Are you hurt?” he asked, when the waves weren't crashing over his head.

“No. But the coffin sank.”

“Swim to the bridge."

“Not yet. I have a rope tied to it. It's in my hand now.”

It took Garin a moment to realize what the Al was saying. 

“Are you mad?” The Svir rushed to the edge of the railing, and looked out. Varad was invisible in the darkness. Black waves lurched around him. 

“Get me something that will float. The wagon's made of wood, so some part of it should do. Bring me enough of it that I can stay afloat here at sea. I'll wait, and you can take the others to Dylath-Leen. Get a ship and come looking for me.”

“You're daft!” Garin yelled. “We'll never find you.”

Varad discovered shrugging was impossible while swimming. “How's Ve Pittin?”

“He's fine. He and Dyroom the messenger took a hard fall, but they can ride. Your man knows his horses. He's fine too. The creatures haven't returned since they flew away with you.”

“Pug's a smart man,” Varad told him. “How's the team?”

“Not good. Some of the horses died, and the carriage is broken. It won't move. ”

"Good."

"Cold hell?" Garin asked.

“It should float,” Varad pointed out.

Garin looked into the darkness, and wondered if perhaps he really was talking to madness. 

"The waves are beating towards me. Throw the carriage over, I'll stay here with it, and you come back in the morning with a ship. Get Pittin and Pug to safety, take your brothers to the Chapterhouse, and bring a bunch of angry men with swords."

"I do not leave comrades!"

"Svir Garin, what is the mission of the Red Guard?" screamed Varad.

"What?" demanded Garin.

"What is the mission of the Red Guard?"

"Serve the Baron!"

"And your duty is to him! Take the messenger to him. Your second duty is to your people! See them buried. Now throw the carriage over so I have something to float with, and be back in the morning. I'm not leaving, so you may as well hurry."

"You bleeding madman," hissed Garin, but too softly for Al Varad to hear him.

The Svir looked at the lanterns, and they were burning low, small fires crouching on slim wicks. Pug was returning with his team. Pittin looked like he was fingers from death, and Dyroom was beaten beyond endurance. The dead covered the bridge. 

"I place my mission in the hands of the Red Guard," called Varad. "Throw me a carriage and come back soon."

Garin was quiet longer, staring at the black of night, from whence called Varad's voice. 

"Don't go anywhere!" yelled the Svir. "I'll get you a carriage!"

"Like I'm anchored to the bottom," Varad concurred.


	12. Chapter 12

23

 

"Negative, sire. I said the casket was thrown into the sea."

Rows of stone ribs climbed the walls, and at their apexes the interstitial spaces plunged into the ceiling in cut tunnels. Torches lined either side of the ribs, climbing on alternating sides like ship ladders. Wind blew smoke up and out. 

The heart of the Upper Headquarters was the Baron's seat and its wide sunburst, the same sigil Lord Roban, Master General of the Red Guard, wore on his breast. Svir Garin wore a small sunburst on either collar. Most of the officers wore sunbursts on their cloaks. Baron Dylath-Leen did not. His black cloak and white fringe were the only signs of rank he had. He didn't wear a crown or carry a scepter. 

As Al Varad stood before him, the Baron sighed in something like old anguish and looked up at the trails of smoke that slipped into the ceiling. They made tiny spirals. Baron Dylath-Leen thought of foam caught in whirlpools. He turned his attention to Svir Garin.

"Senior Swordsman, assist the Swordmaster. Explain the events on the Mist Bridge of Six Kings Point."

"Certainly, my lord. It is as Al Varad said. We were ambushed by creatures. Man-sized, but leaner, thin as a man dead of starvation, with thin, batlike wings. Even the wings seemed thin, deprived of feather or fur by privation. They killed my brothers with claws and barbed tails, and made to carry them off. I believe they eat men. We put them to rout, and they attempted to take the casket Al Varad represents bore your son. He assaulted them in mid-air and destroyed them. The casket fell into the sea."

Svir Garin requested permission to elaborate, which was given, and quickly summarized the events between passing Al Varad and Pug on the road and the penultimate battle at sea. He spoke with a peculiar breach of the Doonish accent, an obviously artificial manner than formed each consonant precisely and clipped every trailing vowel. He paced himself like a double-time march, every word and breath forced into a tempo that never lagged. At the end he was in perfect control of his breath.

"At which point, Ve Pittin and myself heaved the carriage over the side of the bridge. The carriage owner Pug volunteered his team of horses to carry your messenger Dyroom and our deceased brethren to shore. We rode quickly, and arrived without further incident.

"The next morning we reached the Chapterhouse, and I reported to Commander Lool." Garin paused to snap his head towards a thin man with huge, shaggy sideburns that marched down his face into the sea of his beard. His upper lip was shaved to perfection. "Commander Lool authorized commission of sailing vessels in support of Al Varad. Commander Lool?" Svir Garin looked to him.

Commander Lool nodded faintly. "One sailing ship to carry Svir Garin and Ve Pittin, to put directly to sea to find-" Lool paused and chewed over the name. Even Master General Roban turned to the garrison commander. "-Al Varad. A second ship with block and tackle, as well as space for Vyer's gift, was to follow immediately."

The Baron repeated, "Vyer's gift?" curiously.

"Escalation of force, sire. Two hundred Swordsmen," said Commander Lool. "All the ship would carry."

"Ah," observed the Baron. 

"Yes, my lord Baron," said Svir Garin. "We put to sea at noon the next day, in a mid tide, and the full detachment was to follow that night. The captain graciously volunteered to take the midnight high tide. Warmark Herrin was in charge of the detachment."

Baron Dylath-Leen glanced at Roban. Master General Roban had an answer ready. "I will have him summoned from Dylath-Leen, sire."

The Baron nodded. "Svir Garin, continue."

"Yes, sire. We made contact with Al Varad that night. He had remained on the carriage. The heavier carrier had not arrived, so we marked the position and waited. During the evening, a frigate arrived and attempted to lift the casket from the side. They had swimmers that attached cabling to the casket while we remained in position above."

Svir Garin paused and shifted speaking tempo. Every word remained precisely spoken, but he slowed down. There could be no confusion over what he said.

"Al Varad boarded the frigate. He engaged and destroyed her crew once the casket was lifted and placed on deck."

No one said anything.

"Thereafter the vessel was taken by a dragon. The beast descended from the stars, lifted the frigate in its forepaws, and carried it off. Ve Pittin and myself had remained off-vessel for communication purposes, and to follow the frigate if it managed to escape. I saw the dragon clearly. It had black eyes and green scales, broad wings, and thick legs and tail. Wingspread approximated the King Berrys Parade Field. It was wreathed in fire. The beast took the frigate and left. Shortly thereafter, the troop carrier arrived."

The simple creaks of footsteps on stone far above the command room echoed through the chimneys, and flutter and rush of wind whispered as it ruffled cloaks. 

Baron Dylath-Leen said, "What vessel were you on?"

"The Lady Plays, sire."

"Did she have a crew?"

"One, sire. Captain and owner."

Baron Dylath-Leen turned to Roban. "Get me that captain." He pointed at the officer to emphasize his point.

"Yes, sire," said Master General Roban. 

Lady Aryce looked at Svir Garin, trying to judge how he took the Baron's words. The Senior Swordsman didn't appear to attach any significance to them at all. He remained in an off-position of attention, standing straight with heels together, but his hands were clasped behind his back. The Svir seemed comfortable should he remain standing there all day.

"And after that?" prompted the Baron.

"I reported back to Commander Lool. We discovered you had moved to Van to be closer to the Southern Line, so with the messenger Dyroom, we retraced our steps. I escorted him to the palace of that city and returned here. We met the ransom demand from Lrok of the south. Lady Aryce of the Highlands offered her negotiating aid in conducting the transaction, and as Al Varad is from the highlands, command agreed." Garin turned and nodded ever so faintly to Master General Roban. The lord in the broad sunburst uniform nodded. "We went south and reacquired Al Varad." 

Garin swiftly and succinctly described the events of the second journey, ending with their return to Cutter less than an hour previously.

"The ransom steel is being returned to Quartermaster Staff now, and the detachment is bunking. Sire." Garin finished his narrative with a sharp movement from standing rest to attention, saluted with his right fist tapping his heart, and returned to standing rest. A faint murmur moved through the Redguard in attendance, and several of them stretched. 

Baron Dylath-Leen didn't say anything for a long time. Varad and Garin remained before him, but the watchers by the walls moved. Some of them completed minor bits of business that had halted when the ransom detachment had arrived. A few messengers came and left, and terse conversations of carefully-picked innocence sprang up in the corners of the room. The ransom-steel would need to be signed back into stock. If Pug billed for his carriage, that could be paid from the ransom budget. If Varad was Al Varad, he would be backpaid for several months of Swordmaster salary. Someone left to inform the purser. 

"Do you contest anything the Svir has said?" asked Baron Dylath-Leen, breaking his long silence. The muted side conversations ended.

"No, sire."

The man on the throne nodded, and looked at the man standing in leg braces. 

"Then you failed."

The silence went loud, a high-pitched squeal of no noise. Dozens of armed men snapped from calm to tense. None clenched harder than Varad, whose entire body flexed until the leather of his boots creaked and the buckles of his belt strained. The Baron was ice.

"Al Varad, I sent you to the Ungale to rescue my son, and you failed. You bypassed Hysterat, and failed to deliver him to Red Guard hands. You attempted to poach a free ride with the Red Guard, brought a messenger to his death, and failed to cross. You conclude needing a rescue, a rescue of the Red Guard, men you claimed are beneath you. Yet Svir Garin succeeded, and you failed.

"The fidelity of the Red Guard is beyond compare. They rescued you. You failed them. My son remains in Ungale Ngalnek. 

"You are not capable of the responsibilities of the position given to you. You are removed from the office of Swordmaster, and I will summon a replacement from the Uplands. You are given to the office of the Senior Swordsman Garin until you regain your honor. Enlistment is thirty years. You have accomplished almost two. Perhaps in time you will be worthy of wearing the Red."

Varad, not yet Ve Varad, sank in fits and starts. The left side of him remained clenched, but his right side sagged. His jaw was trembling with suppressed pressure as his eyebrows fell and his eyelids half closed. His feet twitched in his braces.

"Junior Swordsman, meet Ve Pittin in lodgings. Go now. You're dismissed," said Svir Garin quietly. 

Like knives the words entered Varad, and he walked away.


End file.
